


diminuendo

by 779H41, ElisAttack, Stucky1980



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animal Death, Bisexuality, Car Accidents, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Los Angeles, M/M, Mild Semi-Public Sex, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Pining, Russian Natasha Romanov, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Social Media, Thriller, a touch of Peggy/Steve, mentions of drug abuse, not so much a whodunnit as a who’s currently doing it, shots fired at the rampant sexism in ballet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/779H41/pseuds/779H41, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stucky1980/pseuds/Stucky1980
Summary: Bucky Barnes is a dancer down on his luck.  With an old injury in danger of flaring up at any moment, and a stalled career, he just wants his life back on track.  Years of icing his feet, counting calories, the rap of a switch on the back of his calves, and he still has something to prove.  At least compared to his best friend.  Then again, Bucky’s been chasing Steve's heels since they were kids.Steve is the top principal in their company, and the greatest dancer to come out of America in the last ten years.  It's no wonder he has his share of admirers.  For years Steve’s fans have respected the boundary between personal and public.  It was only a matter of time until someone stepped over the line.Or the one where dancers all along the California coast are dying in suspicious circumstances.  The only connection between all of them: Steve.  Meanwhile, Bucky fights tooth and nail for a lead role in Peggy’s new ballet.  And he’s willing to do anything to have it.





	1. technically perfect

**Author's Note:**

> _diminuendo_ was written for the Stucky AU Bang with beautiful art by the talented [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com), [ewlyn](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/), and [lisamott9](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/). Seriously, go check out their blogs, you won't regret it. The gorgeous art that these three lovely people made still brings tears to my eyes. I can't get over how amazing and fulfilling it was to work with them.
> 
> Here are the links to their art on Tumblr, organized by chapter, check it out, and reblog!:
> 
> [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com): [six](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/182925693188/my-first-illustration-for-the-fic-diminuendo-by), [eight](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/182970214318/the-second-illustration-for-the-fic-diminuendo-by), [ten](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183012266313/the-third-illustration-for-diminuendo-by), [twelve](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183059627618/an-illustration-for-diminuendo-by-iamonlydancing), [fifteen](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183128549253/an-illustration-for-diminuendo-by-iamonlydancing), [sixteen](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183151897348/the-last-one-loki-this-time-you-guys-have-no)  
> [ewlyn](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/): [header](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/182824380693/diminuendo-by-iamonlydancing-has-started), [thirteen](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183102039968/here-is-my-second-piece-of-artwork-for-diminuendo), [fourteen](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183108189993/the-third-and-fourth-artwork-for-diminuendo-by), [seventeen](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183178192378/the-fifth-and-final-piece-of-artwork-i-have-done)  
> [lisamott9](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/): [nine](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/post/182822394807/first-one-of-my-sketches-for-the-stucky-au-bang), [eighteen](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/post/182841824767/second-drawing-for-the-gorgeous-fic-diminuendo-by)
> 
> Many, many thanks to [themcgeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themcgeek) for betaing this absolute beast of a fic. Also, for catching all my grammar mistakes, reading on despite my insistence on using Canadian-English, and for helping me realise that I apparently listen to much more True Crime podcasts than the average person. Thank you. So much.
> 
> Some clarification on warnings. This fic has a character who counts calories. I hesitate to tag it as an eating disorder, because it’s done in a healthy way, but it comes across as obsessive at some points. The suicide refers to the plot of one of the ballets performed, as well as the possible suicide of a minor character. The domestic violence and child abuse occurred before the fic starts, but it affects a lot of the character motivations. It isn't too graphic, but it isn't skimmed over either. There is also a minor character who abused hard drugs, as well as a mention of an overdose. All off screen. There's a graphic description of a car crash, and one case of animal death that can be distressing if you're affected by stuff like that. Please take this into consideration, and take care of yourself.
> 
> If you have any questions/concerns feel free to drop me an ask on [my tumblr](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com).
> 
> I started this thing back in June of 2018, and it pretty much consumed my life for all these months. I like to think I put a little bit of my soul into this, so I hope you enjoy it. Cheers, and happy reading!

header by [ewlyn](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/) | [masterpost link](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/183187896262/diminuendo-a-collab-for-the-2019-stuckyaubang) | [original art](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/182824380693/diminuendo-by-iamonlydancing-has-started) 

## technically perfect

His shoes dig into the dry earth, sending a cascade of stones rolling down the hill.  There’s a big yucca just a few feet ahead, and Bucky slows to a stop beneath it. Squinting into the distance finds Steve far ahead, the morning light surrounding him in a halo.

Nearly thirty years of life on this earth, and Bucky’s still playing catch up.

Pulling up the bottom of his shirt, he wipes the sweat from his brow, trying to catch his breath.

“You okay?”  Steve calls. Bucky gives him a wordless thumbs up, but Steve still climbs down.  He drops a hand to Bucky’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, a stitch in your side?”

Shaking his head, he takes a long swing from his water bottle.  Steve frowns, so Bucky throws a thumb down the hill. “It’s too hot, we should head back.”

They’re both wearing baseball caps, but Bucky's not one to underestimate the California sun.  Pity the fool who does.

“Sure, but first...”  Steve slides his arm around Bucky’s shoulder, holding up his phone in question.  Bucky nods, tucking a few stray hairs behind his ear.

Framing the shot so the Hollywood sign can be seen in the distance, Steve snaps a selfie of the two of them.  Bucky’s a frequent guest on Steve’s Instagram. He doesn’t have one of his own, and he always hides when the company’s social media guy shows up in studio with his DSLR.  Steve’s flattering with his pictures. The social media guy is not. He always manages to catch Bucky at an embarrassing moment, like when he’s sweaty and red like a boiled lobster, or wearing the ridiculously neon leg warmers his sister gave him for his birthday.

“One like already,”  Steve murmurs, showing off an artistically black and white image of the two of them smiling at the camera.

“Hmm, lemme see.”  Bucky steals Steve’s phone, opening the camera.

“Hey!”  Steve protests, just as Bucky snaps a picture, and then another.  “Hey, stop that.” Steve makes a grab for the phone, but Bucky jumps out of his reach.  A flick of his thumb, and he posts a frazzled image of Steve half laughing, half trying to cover his face.  Of course he still looks gorgeous; he’s Steve. But, it would do well for some of his followers to see that he’s a regular person, just like them.

Bucky tosses the phone back.  Steve catches it, radiating so much silent disapproval Bucky can only laugh.  “Two likes.” He points out.

Steve looks at the screen, brows lifting.  “I could help you set up your own account.”

Bucky scoffs.  “No thanks. I’m not a glutton for attention.”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, but can’t seem to hold back the sly grin slipping through.  Banter has always been their thing, for as long as he can remember. “You calling me an attention whore, Buck?”

Bucky smirks.  “I’m sorry, is that news?”

Rolling his eyes, Steve says,  “Ass.”

Bucky pats his backside.  “Thanks, I take great pride in it.”

Steve just shakes his head, a fond smile on his lips.

Together, they walk down the hill.  They don’t run. That’s been hammered into their heads since they were kids scared shitless by diagrams of torn ACLs.  Running ruins dancers’ knees.

Bucky swings the car out of the lot, and drives them down to the city.  It’s the end of September in LA, and the rainy season is fast approaching.  When the storms roll in, the Hollywood hills melt down into the city. Only then does the smog finally clear.

Bucky steals a glance at Steve.  He’s wearing a pair of mirrored aviators, but Bucky can tell his eyes are closed.  It’s the way his head is tipped back, his arm hanging casually from the car. The convertible is one of the biggest purchases Bucky’s ever made, but one can’t live in LA and not have a convertible.  He's going to be paying it off for years, and he won’t be able to upgrade his shoebox Mid-City apartment anytime soon, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. Especially with the way the wind blows through Steve’s hair.

“Why are you staring?”  Steve asks, lifting his aviators, one eye cracked open, mouth curled in a tease of a smile.

“Someone forgot to put on sunblock,”  Bucky says. Steve snorts and drops his glasses back down, kicking his knee against the dashboard.  Immediately, Bucky swats it. “Vehicle safety, dumbass. I don’t wanna get pulled over because you have a giant’s sprawl.”

He can practically _feel_ Steve roll his eyes, but he drops his leg.  “Joke’s on you, I’m wearing SPF 100. I look like a vampire, but I can’t have Peggy yelling at me, again.”

“I thought you liked getting yelled at by strong women.  Isn’t that a kink of yours?” Bucky laughs when Steve blushes red enough for it to show through the sunblock.  Steve pokes him in retaliation. The car swerves, but Bucky rights it on a turn. “I’m driving, you entire asshole.”

“Entire _.._ .   _wow_ , and I’m the kinky one?”  Steve says wryly.

“You’re the one who wore that little leather number at Pride,”  Bucky reminds him.

Steve sticks his tongue out.  “I’ll have you know that was a harness, and it served a legitimate purpose.”

“What?”  Bucky snorts, signalling and taking a turn.  “Hanging from someone’s sex dungeon?”

“Nope,”  Steve pops the p.  “Holding up the wings Tony lent me.”

Oh yeah, he remembers those.  Rainbow sequins and gold appliqué, they were garish, massive, and bright enough to be seen from space.  Bucky was visiting his family in Brooklyn when Steve posted the photo on Instagram. Becca had screamed bloody murder when she got the notification.  Her crush on Steve is frankly ridiculous, considering he used to change her diapers. Teenagers, he’ll never understand them.

Bucky turns on his stereo, smirking when _Barbie Girl_ pours quietly from the speakers.  He cranks up the volume, yelling over the music,  “Look, it’s your song!” Steve flicks his ear playfully, and Bucky laughs, wide and free.  “Careful, someone might think you’re trying to do away with the competition.”

“Pull over, Buck,”  Steve says with a beautifully maniacal grin.

“What,”  Bucky glances at the road, then back to Steve as he’s inching closer, fingers wiggling.  “C’mon, Steve,” he snorts, as Steve feathers a finger over his kneecap. Fuck, Bucky’s ticklish.  “I’m gonna crash,” he threatens.

“Not if you pull over,”  Steve says, adding more fingers to the mix.  Bucky’s turning red from trying to hold back his laughter.  “Pull over,” A finger dips under his knee, and Bucky gives in, pulling them off to the side of the road.  That’s when Steve strikes, fingers merciless in their pursuit of Bucky’s laughter.

***

Bucky never cuts corners when he dances.  His technique is perfect. Steve says it’s his greatest asset.  Bucky thinks it’s his greatest flaw.

He’s a classically trained dancer trying to make it big in contemporary ballet.  In the beginning he’d struggled with the more modern choreographic pieces. Trying to convey emotion through an absent plot, when he should have been doing it through the music.  It’s been three years since he moved companies—he knows better now.

The company has been good to him, as they are good to all their dancers.  The pay is good, they’re unionized, and even the health insurance is top notch.  The people are friendly, and while competition is real, it isn’t terribly cutthroat.

There’s the principals.  Natasha, and her tendency to forget English when it comes time to schmooze donors.  Pepper, who was sweet enough to invite him to her wedding when he’d been with the company only a few months.  Sam, with whom he gets along as well as can be expected, considering he’s the _other man_ in Steve’s life.  Then Steve, of course.

Their company employs just under a hundred dancers.  From principals to apprentices, character artists to soloists, to the backbone of the ballet: the corps.

Peggy’s their resident choreographer, but artists come from all over the globe to create with them.  Their company is well known for creating ballets, not just performing them. The senior ballet master, Coulson, and the artistic director, Fury, have been working towards that goal for decades.  Making this company one of the biggest in America.

Fury plucked their choreologist, Maria, right out of school, long before any other company could get their claws into her.  With Peggy creating a new ballet every other season, it all has to be documented somehow and Maria knows Benesh notation like the back of her hand.  Fury even managed to convince one of the best répétiteurs in the world to return to the industry. Bruce could catch a sickled foot in the middle of a foggy night across the bay.  Then, there’s Tony, who was recruited right off of broadway. He controls their costumes, sets, and props departments; literally anything that needs making, he can do.

Fury never fails to find good hires.  Except, it seems, when it comes to Bucky.  What else could explain his stalled career, other than Fury’s uncertainty in his abilities?  He was a principal in his old company, but in this one he’s been stuck as a soloist for three years now.

To the naked eye there isn’t much difference between a soloist and a principal.  They both dance solo roles that are technically difficult. In most classical ballets, minor solo roles are just as fulfilling as lead roles, since the casts are so large.  But to Bucky it’s the greatest difference in the world.

It’s like being trapped in purgatory; waiting and hoping for a promotion that’s never coming.

There are level of seniority.  A soloist won’t have a role when a principal is available to fill it.  When the company runs out of principals to schedule, that’s when he comes in.  He isn’t good enough to be promoted to principal, and he isn’t dancing every night, like when he was eighteen and in the corps.

He has too much free time on his hands, and too much free time so often leads to stagnation.

***

“Is something the matter, James?”  Coulson asks, stopping beside his and Pepper’s barre.  “Your relevés are too wide, you’ll injure yourself that way.”

Bucky curses his wandering thoughts, and shifts his legs closer together.

“That’s better.”  Coulson moves on, warming up the company for the day.

It’s all well and good, but he makes them do battement after battement until Bucky feels like a can-can girl.  Straining with the effort, sweat flows down his body in a flood. The pianist, Erik Selvig, stops playing at Coulson’s signal, and Bucky’s left panting in the centre of the studio.  Lactic acid burns in his calves, but with nary a protest from the old fracture in his foot, he isn’t worried.

“It’s tragic isn’t it?”  Pepper says, picking up her towel, tossing over Bucky’s as well.

“Thanks,”  he says, wiping his face of sweat.  “What’s tragic?”

“You didn’t hear?”  She says, eyes wide, towel paused on the way her face.  “Sharon Carter was in a car accident last night.”

“Peggy’s niece?”  Bucky says, pulling his bag towards him.  “Is she okay?”

“No.”  Pepper says sadly.  “She passed away.”

“Oh,”  Bucky says, hands falling from the zipper.

Bucky never met Sharon in person.  She was Steve's partner in the company long before Bucky’s arrival.  She danced with Steve for three seasons before moving to San Francisco.  The press used to hound them, printing tabloid after tabloid overreading a friendly hug, or a kiss on the cheek.  In the end, the rumours were only rumours. They worked well together, and when artists of the opposite sex dance the way Steve and Sharon did, people always make assumptions.

“Life is so short,”  Pepper says, “Do you ever think about how it could end just like that?”  She snaps her fingers.

“Everyday,”  Bucky says, his mind elsewhere.  Steve didn’t show up for class this morning.  Bucky figured he had a coaching session with Bruce, but now…  especially with this news. He and Sharon were close, even after all these years.

The ancient pipes creak, and Bucky settles with his back against the endless mirror.  Pepper pulls out a bottle of nail polish and fixes a darn in her stockings. Bucky digs around in his bag for a granola bar, and his notebook.  They have apps for counting calories now, but Bucky’s been writing down everything he puts in his body since he was thirteen. Some habits are hard to break.

He records the granola bar, mechanically chewing the sticky almonds and oats.  It tastes like cardboard in his mouth. Rubbing the raised scar on the back of his calf, he worries over too many things at once.

To get him to his optimum performance weight, he’ll need to lose half a pound a week.  Consuming just under three thousand calories a day will meet all his energy requirements, and get him to that goal in two months.  Any more, and he’ll put on weight. Any less, and his body will acidify as it breaks down muscle mass. It’s fat he doesn’t need, his muscles are heavy enough.  A human leg is on average twenty-five pounds, if he can shave a pound off that, it’s a pound he doesn’t have to expend energy lifting. It’s the only way he knows to get an advantage over Steve.

Steve eats whatever and whenever he wants, and barely makes use of the company’s nutritionist.  He lifts weights thrice a week, to Peggy’s consternation, and has the physicality of a swimmer, minus the tan.

And yet, when he dances he makes Bucky question the existence of gravity.

Bucky chews his lip.  Fuck it. Grabbing his bag, he says a quick goodbye to Pepper.  Bucky never cuts class early. He dances his best when he stays the entire two hours, but this is an emergency.

He finds Steve by the water fountains.  He’s sitting with his back to the wall, head buried in his hands.  His phone lies abandoned on the floor, he must have dropped it. Bucky scoops it up.  Fuck, that’s Sharon’s smiling face on the cracked screen, right beside a picture of a burnt out husk of a sports car.

“Stevie?”  Bucky says cautiously, crouching so he can wrap his hands around Steve’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face.  “Honey...”

“Buck,”  Steve croaks,  “She was so happy.”  He looks up, eyes red and wet.  “She wanted us to dance together again.  But, Bucky, she’s _gone_.”

“I know,”  Bucky says pulling Steve into a tight hug.

“She was so good, y’know, volunteered for anything and everything.  Bucky, she was my first real partner. She had faith in my abilities well before I won the Prix.”

Bucky strokes a hand down the back of his head, letting Steve cry into his shoulder.  Steve’s never had it easy with loss. When his ma died, the nurses had to carry him limp and sobbing from her hospital room.  He can weather a lot, but losing people he loves is not one of those things.

“She's the one who signed us up for that USO tour in Afghanistan.  The one where we danced for the troops?”

“I remember,”  Bucky soothes, “You sent me the pictures.”

“I can't believe she's really gone,”  Steve blubbers, his face an ugly mess of tears and snot.  Bucky has an overwhelming urge to wrap him tight in his arms and never let go.  “I don’t understand how this could happen.”

Bucky holds him until he finally stops crying, and then keeps holding him for good measure.  He’s late for his coaching session, but Steve’s weak ‘thanks, Buck’ when he finally lets go is worth it and more.

***

“In this industry there’s a paper thin line between obsession, love, and hate,”  Peggy says, “And my niece straddled that line in a perfect split. Ballet was her foil, but it was also her life.  And what a life it was.” Peggy dashes away a tear. “You could say that runs in the family.”

A spattering of laughter rises from the audience, even Steve chuckles wetly.

“Sharon volunteered her time and talents to so many charities, I’ve lost count.  She traveled to military bases all over the world, dancing for soldiers. She taught kids who couldn’t afford the academy.  She spent her summers picking up garbage by the ocean, just because she could. She spread her love of dance far and wide.”

Bucky reaches over, squeezing Steve’s hand in comfort.  Steve gives him a watery smile in return, enfolding their fingers in a vice-tight grip.

It’s a beautiful memorial service, held in a beautiful chapel in San Francisco, with beautiful people crying over how much they loved the beautiful Sharon Carter.  By the podium there’s a picture of her, smiling ecstatically, a bouquet of flowers cradled in her arms. No doubt after a successful performance.

“America has lost one of her best daughters,”  Peggy finishes, “Sharon will be dearly missed.”

After the service, Bucky waits by a droopy cycad while Steve speaks with Sharon’s girlfriend on the chapel steps.  Bucky cranes his head, and oh boy, she’s crying. Steve’s hugging her, patting her back, but she’s full on sobbing.  Bucky can’t blame her. From all Steve told him about her, Sharon was an amazing woman.

Someone coughs, and Bucky jumps nearly a foot in the air.

He whirls around, and his jaw drops.  Up until now, he hasn’t seen Rumlow in at least two years.  He was hoping he’d never have to see him again, to be perfectly honest.

“Barnes?  I thought it was you—”

Bucky grabs Rumlow by the tie and yanks him behind the cycad’s sad branches, hiding them from the other attendees.

“What the fuck?”  He hisses, shaking Rumlow by the tie at his stubbled throat.  “You’re not supposed to come within a hundred feet of him. The fuck are you doing here?”

“Sharon, who else?”  Rumlow says. To his credit, he doesn’t try to get away, he just lifts his palms in surrender.  “She was my colleague too. Can you let go of me now? Please?”

“You didn’t even come to Pepper and Tony’s wedding because Steve was invited.”  Bucky glares at him a few moments more, before dropping his hands.

Rumlow adjusts his tie, clearing his throat.  “A wedding is not a funeral. Tony is a playboy, he can get married again.  Sharon, on the other hand, can only die once.”

Bucky lifts his brows.  “Wow.” For the millionth time Bucky wonders what the hell Steve saw in this guy.

“I didn’t know Steve was coming, I swear.  I just saw him now, and he nearly gave me a heart attack.  He looks good,” Rumlow says wistfully.

“Shut up,”  Bucky spits.  The bastard doesn’t have the right to think about Steve like that, not anymore.

“I’m off the smack.  I swear.” Rumlow crosses an x over his heart, but Bucky's well aware that he doesn't have a genuine bone in his body.

Bucky scoffs, looking everywhere but at Rumlow.  He really might punch him if he has to stare at his face for too long.  “You mean the heroin? What about the coke, dickbag?”

“Okay, I deserve that, I admit,”  Rumlow says. “But I’m clean. I checked myself into rehab.  I’ve been going to meetings, talking to people who’ve been through what I’ve been through.”  Rumlow reaches into his front pocket, and pulls out a chip. He holds it between his fingers like it's manna from God.  “Four months sober.”

Bucky works his jaw.  “Great,” he says sarcastically,  “Good for you.” Don’t get him wrong, it’s good that Rumlow’s getting himself cleaned up.  It’s better than how most people in his situation end up. It’s just unfair that Steve had to weather through his worst.

“I’m dancing again.  Not ballet. Burlesque, in West Hollywood.  It’s less stressful, on the mind and body. And the boss was willing to hire someone with an active order against them.  So, bonus.”

“Wonderful,”  Bucky says sarcastically.

“My sponsor thinks I need to square myself with Steve, apologize for everything.”

Bucky lets out a little disbelieving laugh, even though the situation isn’t funny in the slightest.  “Do you not know the definition of a restraining order? It means you stay the hell away from him.”

“I was hoping you could get him to speak with me, as a personal favour?”

Bucky shakes his head vehemently.  “No way. After what you did? Fuck no.”

Rumlow frowns, and for one second he looks exactly like the mean bastard Bucky remembers.  Then he closes his eyes, and takes a few deep breaths. “Okay,” he says.

“Congratulations on your sobriety, but Steve doesn’t owe you anything.”  Bucky folds his arms over his chest, unwilling to give an inch. “Now fuck off, before he sees you.”

“It was nice seeing you again, Barnes,”  Rumlow says with a roll of his eyes. He turns around, and ambles over to the parking lot, waving over his shoulder.

Bucky, like the mature adult he is, flips him the bird.

He makes sure Rumlow’s well and driven away, before turning his attention back to Steve.  Except, he’s not the only one looking.

A woman in a drab suit leans against the chapel siding, watching Steve.  With a pair of wayfarers hiding her eyes, and arms crossed in front of her chest, she resembles the other mourners in only one way: she’s clothed from head to toe in black.  Bucky stares at her curiously. She’s so out of place. Her lip is quirked with a hint of a smile, in sharp comparison to the sombre mood around them. He’s pretty sure she wasn’t at the service.

She adjusts the tie at her throat, then her head turns towards the cycad.  To him. He drops his gaze, but when he looks up again, she’s gone.

Later in the evening as they fly back to LA, Steve drapes an arm over his shoulder, tugging him into a hug.

“What was that for?”  Bucky asks, when Steve releases him.

“For always being there,”  Steve says. “Thanks for coming with me.  I couldn’t get my grief mixed up with Peggy’s, she has enough to deal with.”  His eyes glow a deep purple in the pink sunset filtered through the window, lashes casting deep shadows on his cheekbones.  Steve’s devastatingly handsome, a heart-breaker though and through. It’s not the first time Bucky thinks it, and it won’t be the last.

“I saw Rumlow,”  Bucky admits.

“I know,”  Steve says through a tight smile.  “I saw him too, he was only a few pews in front of us.”

“He spoke with me after the service.  Claimed he was sober.”

“Good for him,”  Steve says firmly, nodding his head.  He looks down at his lap, hands fidgeting.

“Hey,”  Bucky says, getting his attention.  Steve turns back to him, mouth downturned.  “I’ve got your back, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know.”  Steve smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.  Bucky forgets all about Rumlow, and the woman in the drab suit.

 


	2. aphasia

## aphasia

Of all the ballets in his repertoire, Bucky would have to say that _Sechs Tänze_ is his favourite.  The first time he saw it live, he laughed his ass off, not expecting how utterly ridiculous it is.  From the powdered white wigs, to the expressions the dancers make, to just how much fun it is.

They’re opening the season with a triple bill; three ballets by Jiří Kylián in one night.  He has minor roles in the first two, but for _Sechs Tänze_ , he’s dancing one of the two male roles in the pas de quatre.  Sam and Pepper are his partners; as well as Wanda, a corps dancer turned newly promoted soloist.

Last season, when the company put on _Swan Lake_ , Wanda was one of four girls performing the dance of the cygnets.  It’s one of the most difficult roles in all of _Swan Lake_ , and requires both stamina and technical skill.  She blew everyone away—including the critics—earning her promotion.  

“Your elbows are too soft, Pepper, be more sharp with your fouettés,”  Bruce says, clapping his hands. “Again.”

Pepper restarts her solo, legs kicking out further and harder as she spins.   _Sechs Tänze_ is fast and hectic, and looks a mess to the casual observer.  But it fits Mozart's quirky music perfectly.

Bruce waves to Wanda, and she steps up in sync with Pepper.  Her hair is a shocking red, just like Pepper’s. They make quite the pair.

Bucky’s pretty nervous about partnering with a dancer that green.  Wanda is talented, but she lacks in experience. Ballerinas need to know how to centre their weight during a lift.  That's not something that can be taught. It takes years of practice to get it right. Still, it isn't all on the ballerina.  If their partner is to execute a perfect lift, they need the confidence to carry it through. Sam is as cool as a cucumber when he lifts Wanda.  And no wonder, he shines his best when he’s partnered up. He’s a reassuring presence, and he knows how to roll with the punches. If a partner leans in the wrong direction, Sam easily adjusts himself so not to drop them.  Bucky, on the other hand, can’t help a twinge of apprehension.

He leans against the piano, plucking at his sweaty tank.

“You’ll be fine,”  Erik says from his seat at the piano, glasses slipping down his nose.

Erik Selvig is an older gentlemen, and a company pianist.  He has a list of credentials a mile long, and once played for the Stockholm Philharmonic.  He’s been with the company almost as long as Fury has, which is to say, since the stone age.  While Fury is as mean as a twenty foot crocodile, Erik has the personality of an angel. Everyone loves him.

“Says you, Mr. Perfect.”  Bucky taps out a rhythm on the top of the piano.

“No one is perfect.”  Erik turns the page of his sheet music.  “Not even your friend, Steven.”

Bucky laughs in disbelief.  “Steve has never made a mistake in his life.”

“Then you’ve been watching him through rose-coloured glasses,”  Erik says knowingly, and Bucky sputters. “I play for him when he learns choreography.  He only seems perfect because of the time and energy he puts into his work.”

“Sure,”  he says skeptically.  Bucky puts even more time and energy into his dancing, but he is still only half as good as Steve.  He doesn’t voice this. He doesn’t want to sound whiny.

“Mr. Barnes, you hike, don’t you?”  Erik studies him from over his glasses, like he's a particularly interesting specimen.

“I do.”

Erik picks up a pencil, and makes a little note in the score.  “A little over a decade ago I found myself lost in Big Sur. Turned down the wrong path, or two, or three, and spent the day sitting on a rock, staring up at the redwoods, wondering where I had gone wrong.  The only reason I’m not still sitting on that rock is because a ranger just happened to stumble upon me.”

“I didn’t know you hiked.”  He glances in apprehension at Erik’s wobbly knees.

Erik smiles like he knows exactly what Bucky's thinking.  “Ever since that day, I’ve thoroughly planned a trip months in advance.  There’s no getting lost for me, especially now that I’ve got my dog. Bella’s a good little pup.”  He wiggles his whiskers. “You won’t get lost either, so long as you know what you are doing. And I have it on great authority that you know exactly what you're doing.”

“James!”  Bruce calls.  “Front and centre.”

Bucky gives Erik a grateful smile before running out onto the floor.

Bruce counts as Erik plays the piano.  He’s so lost in the music and choreography, he doesn’t even notice another presence until Bruce asks Erik to stop.  Setting Pepper on her feet, Bucky glances towards Bruce, and finds Peggy Carter looking right at him.

Steve used to have a postcard of her taped to his bedroom wall, imposing in her blood red Kitri costume.  She was younger then, and so different from the waifish dancers that were popular in the heroin chic 90s. Oh, how he used to tease Steve about that postcard.  Steve insisted he only admired her technical skills but Bucky caught him staring at it too many times to be kosher.

Her eyes crease at the corners now, and she’s hung up the leotard for designer pant suits, but she still has the same fiery spirit that made her Kitri so famous.  She comes from a long line of top notch ballerinas. The daughter of a renowned prima, Peggy’s heritage can be traced back to when ballet first established itself in England.  The Carters are ballet royalty, but Peggy’s anything but traditional.

The first ballet she ever choreographed was a commissioned piece for an Italian company.  She was given a composer and complete creative freedom, and she took it to heart. The director wanted a ballet set in the Renaissance, and she give him that.   _Fontana_ was born; inspired by the life of the Italian painter Lavinia Fontana.  Peggy scoured the globe for voluptuous ballerinas that embodied the Renaissance.  With them as her leads, she shattered the stereotype that only slender girls could dance on pointe.  It was slammed in some circles, praised in others. She was only thirty at the time.

“Barnes,”  she says, brown eyes calculating.  Then, turning to Erik, “I want to see him from point and shoot,”  she indicates a moment on the score, so Erik knows exactly what he has to play.

“Pepper?”  Bucky asks, but Peggy shakes her head.

“No, with Maximoff.”

Wanda, wide eyed and quivering, goes up to Bucky.  He can’t blame her. Peggy’s an imposing figure, to say the least, and this has the possibility to make or break her career.  Especially with this tricky scene, where so many things could go wrong.

Erik slams on the keys, and the scene begins.  Bucky points at Wanda, and she falls in a dead faint.  He twirls, and leaps over to her. There’s trust in her eyes as he picks her up by the back of the neck.  He obviously hasn’t given her enough credit. She knows not to rely on his strength alone which would risk him hurting her unintentionally.  She’s light as a whistle, because she uses her legs to power herself forward and up.

They dance until Peggy calls for them to stop.  Wanda grins at Bucky, wide and ecstatic, and Bucky smiles back.

“Thank you, Maximoff,”  Peggy says. Tears glisten in Wanda’s eyes.  Bucky barely remembers being that young and eager to please.

Peggy makes a ‘come here’ gesture at him, and he goes with some trepidation.

“You studied under Alexander Pierce, didn’t you?”  She asks, watching Bruce run the others through the next scene.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s a self-righteous twat isn’t he?”

Bucky’s eyebrows lift all the way to his hairline.  He nearly smiles, but stops himself in time. “That’s putting it delicately.”

“I never could stand him.  Fancies himself a choreographer when he doesn’t have a creative bone in his body.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s a world class ballet master.” She looks at him, and he feels frozen with the intensity of her stare.  “Must be why you turned out so good.”

“Thanks?”

“Tell me, Barnes.  Is Béjart’s _Bolero_ in your repertoire?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Well…”  She grins, teeth sharp like a lion.  “Make sure you learn the principal role, we’re putting it on next season.”

Bucky’s jaw drops, and his heart just about stops in his chest.

“I recommend watching our 2009 production in the archives.  And contact Maria with any questions you may have about the choreography.”  She pats him on the shoulder, then walks right out of the studio. Pepper meets his eye from across the room, lifting a curious brow.  Bucky gives her a stunned thumbs up.

That evening he does as Peggy suggested.  He makes an appointment with Maria, and checks out the _Bolero_ DVD.  A few days later when the triple bill opens to a sold out audience, Bucky dances like it’s his last season as a soloist.  For all he knows, it could be.

***

After a long day in the studio, Bucky comes home to a hungry cat.  Tossing his keys on the counter, he runs fingers through Jupiter’s ginger coat, scratching the place below her ear that has her purring every time.  He opens a tin for her, then walks down to the corner store.

During class one of the girls mentioned that _Vanity Fair_ published an interview with Peggy, so he skims over the magazine rack.  The owner, Mr. Sharma, asks after his day as he rings up his regular bag of ice.

“Danced until my feet went numb,”  Bucky says, finding what he was looking for.  Wow, they put Peggy on the cover. He grabs it, adding it to his purchase.

“A typical day, then?”  Mr. Sharma says at the image of Peggy in a pant suit.  She's standing on pointe, staring at the camera knowingly.  “Someone you know?”

“A colleague.”  Bucky grins, then nods to the picture of a chubby-faced kid taped to the cash register.  “How is the little one?” Mr. Sharma loves his granddaughter something beautiful, and he lights up at any inquiries after her.

Mr. Sharma smiles fondly at the picture.  “She just started ballet.”

“Oh?”  Bucky says, interest piqued.  “How does she like it?”

“It’s difficult, but she’s a determined little girl.  Wants nothing more than to dance everywhere and anywhere.”

Bucky hums.  He knows that feeling very well.  “Has she ever been to the ballet?”

“We haven’t had the chance,”  Mr. Sharma says sadly, “You know how it is.”

Yes, Bucky is all too familiar.  His family didn’t have much money when he was a kid, but his neighbourhood had a good library system.  He must have checked out every tape he could find on ballet, but didn’t see his first performance in the flesh until he was accepted into the academy.  Ballet is expensive—to study, and to watch—but his parents believed in him, and they paid his way. Bucky couldn’t even get a job to help out. He didn't have the time.  When he wasn’t in school, he had to be at the studio, or he would fall behind. Forget all the shit other teens were doing. While everyone else was getting underage drunk at parties, Bucky spent his nights in the studios dancing...

_…and a one, and a two, and a three, and a four, volé to the front, coupé, volé to the back, assemblé at the back, and a one, and a two, and a three, and a four…_

…until his ma would inevitably show up to drag him home for dinner.

At home he dumps the ice into a bucket and sets it in front of his TV.  Grimacing, he slides his aching feet in. The clinking ice melts in the burning heat from his fevered skin.  It’ll reduce swelling in his sore muscles, and help him get some sleep at night. Right now, though, it’s damn uncomfortable.

Jupiter hops onto the back of the couch, eyeing his microwave burrito with intent, ignoring his garden salad.  If she’s good, Bucky will slip her a piece of chicken. He doesn’t cook, he doesn’t have time for it. He lives on pre-packaged meals, and well enough, he doesn’t have to do the math, the calories are right there on the packaging.

His phone rings, and Bucky has to dig it out of the mess of cushions before he can read the caller ID.

“Loki?”  Bucky says when the call connects.

“You don’t sound pleased to hear from me,”  Loki says, forever sardonic. Bucky can picture him sitting with his legs up on his desk.  Office dark but for a banker’s lamp and a single smoking cigarette resting on a full ashtray.  Just regular PI stuff.

“It’s not that.  I’m sitting in a bucket of ice.”  Bucky shifts uncomfortably. To Loki’s credit he doesn't ask why.  “How’s the business treating you?”

“There is a surplus of cheating spouses in this town.  It’s enough to keep growing boy hale and hearty,” Loki says slyly.  “The Grandmaster and I saw your show last night. Your performance was subpar.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.  Dick. “Call your sugar daddy _The Grandmaster_ one more time, Loki.”

“Thank you, I will.  But that’s not why I’ve called.”

“Course not.”

“My firm was commissioned to find information on your friend, Mr. Rogers.”

Bucky brows furrow.  Immediately, he thinks of the one guy who might have it out for Steve.  “By whom?”

“It isn’t Brock Rumlow, he’s obeying the restraining order.  Well, except for Miss Carter’s funeral.” Loki says, and Bucky didn’t know he was keeping an eye out.

Loki has never met Steve, Bucky never introduced them.  It’s not that he thinks Steve will judge him for the company he keeps.  He just doesn’t want Steve asking how they met. It involves too many questionable decisions on Bucky's behalf.

“I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know much about this person.  None of my employees know what they look like. Communication has been limited to emails.”

“It could be a joke.”

“The money they’ve wired isn’t.”

“You’ve accepted their money?”  Bucky says with some indignation.

“Money is money,”  Loki says with absolutely no shame.  “And besides, we managed to trace the transfer to an offshore account held by a shell corporation before the trail went dead.  You should thank me for all the billable hours I’ve spent on this, I should be charging you.”

“Thank you, Loki, I owe you my life, Loki,”  Bucky says distractedly. Who the hell wants dirt on Steve?  He’s the nicest person Bucky knows. The only reason Bucky and Sam haven’t laid Rumlow out to dry is because Steve begged them not to.  Whomever this person is—and it surely isn’t Rumlow, he isn’t smart enough to outwit Loki—what do they want?

“We’ll send our client on a wild goose chase,”  Loki says, “And if we discover their identity, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Loki.  For Steve.”

“I’m not doing this for him.  Prima donna Rogers isn’t my friend.  You are, and you care about him. Do what you will with this information,”  Loki says, and the line goes dead.

Bucky tosses his phone to the side with a tired sigh.  It's not that Steve doesn’t have his share of intense fans.  Usually they just hang outside the employee entrance after shows, waiting for a photo.  This is the first time someone has gone this far. It might be a rival seeking blackmail material, but Steve could murder someone and the board would help him bury the body.  They took Steve’s side over the whole matter with Rumlow. Steve didn’t even get a reprimand, while Rumlow lost his job. Steve brings in too much money, and everyone knows it.

Bucky trusts Loki to find their identity.  Until then, there’s nothing he can do.

He presses play on the remote, and the DVD starts where he left off.  He’s been watching it on repeat these past days, studying the dancer on the centre of the stage.  The quality is shit, but it’s the best copy he could find in the company’s archives. Still, no recording could compare to seeing it live back in 09.

A spotlight focuses on a younger Steve as he slides his hand, snakelike, down his body to his hip.  The first few notes of Ravel’s _Bolero_ play; an endlessly repeating, monotonous rhythm.  Steve dances the melody, hips keeping time. His eyes are lined with so much kohl, hair slicked back so he looks like a snake.  Gradually the tension increases and increases, until Bucky’s grabbing his knees in anticipation. Steve jumps, he spins, he throws his arms in the air in pleading, or celebration, or ecstacy, or everything at once.  Cymbals clash, trumpets blow, Bucky’s heart beats along with every note, Steve collapses, and the screen goes dark. The DVD shudders to a stop.

It’s no wonder they say _Bolero_ made Ravel lose language, then drove him to an early grave.  It’s a maddening piece, and the choreography was crafted specifically for it.

Bucky picks up his cold burrito, feeding Jupiter a piece as promised.  He pulls his feet out of the bucket, and places another bag of ice over his knees.  Recording the meal in his notebook, he presses replay.


	3. frieze

## frieze

It’s nearing nine at night, and the company is dead silent.  Bucky’s used to it. In fact, he relishes in it. He likes having a studio to himself, where it’s just him, the music, and the choreography.  Here, he’s free from any and all distractions, or criticisms. It’s when he’s most productive.

The only people that linger at the company longer than him are the costume department, but they tend to remain in the basement atelier.  Sometimes when he’s leaving at midnight, he can hear the rumbling of sewing machines from half-cracked windows, and see the faint glow of a lamp.  Tony’s people enjoy burning the midnight oil. Bucky suspects they prefer it. After all, when it’s dark there’s less chance of a dancer wandering in, demanding a costume seam be adjusted.

Bucky has a TheraBand wrapped around his foot, using it to pull his leg above his head when Steve walks into the studio, surprising him.  He was planning on dancing for a while longer, but he has to wonder if Steve’s set on dragging him home kicking and screaming. Steve usually tells him off if he spends more than twelve consecutive hours at work.

At least he doesn’t have to worry about Jupiter.  His retired neighbour adores her. With one text, she’s all too happy to let herself into Bucky’s apartment to snoop, and to keep Jupiter fed and entertained.

“Hey,”  Steve greets,  “Can I watch?”

“Sure,”  Bucky says, his leg in a perfect turnout.  Last night he decided not to tell Steve about Loki’s call.  He has enough to deal with for the upcoming season. Bucky doesn't need to add another stress factor to his already full plate.  Loki will let him know if there are any further developments. Until then, there’s no point in worrying Steve.

Steve plops down by the opposite wall with a baggie of baby carrots as Bucky finishes his exercises.  “You’re done for the day,” Bucky observes, noting the wet tips of Steve’s hair. He must have just stepped out of the shower.

He shrugs.  “I could be persuaded to dance again.  What are you working on?”

“ _Bolero_ ,”  Bucky answers sheepishly.  “I’m adding it to my repertoire.”

“That was my first role as principal,”  Steve says with a grin, and Bucky knows.  He flew in for Steve’s big moment back in 09.  He sat in the audience during opening night beside Steve’s ma, holding her hand while she cried over her ethereal god of a son.  Bucky wasn’t much better, he doesn’t think he blinked once during the short performance.

Steve had won the prestigious Prix de Lausanne in Switzerland at eighteen; the last year he could qualify for the competition.  Three months later, he received an offer to join the company as a soloist. The season after that, at twenty, Steve was the youngest dancer made principal in the history of the company.  It was a bittersweet time. Steve lost his ma only a few months later.

“Do you want help?”  Steve asks.

Bucky considers the offer, then says,  “Sure.”

Music spills from his bluetooth speakers, an unchanging rhythm that steadily increases in complexity.  Bucky faces the mirror, watching Steve watch him, the weight of his gaze heavy on his shoulders.

“You’re tense,”  Steve remarks. “Keep going,”  he continues when Bucky falters.

“It’s a demanding piece,”  Bucky breathes, reaching high on demi pointe.  His thighs are already burning.

“The music isn’t stiff, and you shouldn’t be either.  May I?” Steve asks, coming closer.

“Please,”  Bucky says, and Steve steps up right behind him.

“You have to feel through the music.  You were trained in the classical style, so you still focus too much on story and perfect form.   _Bolero_ has no story, it has no perfect form.”  Steve reaches around his torso and unflinchingly runs his hand down Bucky’s sweaty chest, stopping at his waist.  “It’s about your physicality. It is showing off your body, and what it can do; how well it can be made an instrument for the music.”  Steve’s hand moves to Bucky’s hip, and it burns like a red hot brand. Bucky watches him in the mirror. Watches the unknowable expression on his face.  “When you tire, you can’t hide it away. It shows in the end, and you must let it.”

“Like the final act of _Giselle_ ,”  Bucky says.  In _Giselle_ , the prince nearly dances himself to death, and the dancer’s exhaustion must communicate that agony.

“Yes, like _Giselle_.”  Steve’s hand grips Bucky’s hip bone, making him move to the beat.  “Use your hips to centre yourself. Reach up and feel the music in your stomach, all the energy, everything, it flows from that.”

Forgetting the technical demands, he focuses on letting go of the tension in his arms.  His limbs soften, and Steve nods, hand dropping from his hip.

“There you go, that’s your _Bolero_.”

They get dinner at Bucky’s favourite restaurant.

Not only is the nutritional information right there on the menu, they make damn delicious food.  Bucky starts with a beet and arugula salad—dressing on the side—then moves on to a thick slab of steak.  Steve—the heathen—orders a plate of fish and chips with extra tartar sauce, a slice of black forest cake to finish.  How he manages to eat so much sugar and not have a single ounce of fat on his body, Bucky will never know.

“Peggy’s debuting new choreography at the end of November,”  Steve says conversationally, popping a fry into his mouth.

“A Nijinsky adaption,”  Bucky says. “I heard some rumours.”

“She’s reconstructing _Afternoon of a Faun_.”

“Oh?”  Bucky lifts his brows, cutlery clicking on his plate.  “Well, if anyone can do it, it’d be Peggy. I thought Fury would put his foot down and insist on something the patrons would like.”

 _Afternoon of a Faun_ is one of the least known of Nijinsky’s works.  Inspired by the stylized figures on ancient Grecian pottery, the ballet is atypical to say the least.  The cast dance barefoot, and it’s very contemporary for a ballet from the 1910s. The dancers move in parallel lines, like a painting.  There’s only one leap, and no pointe work whatsoever. It’s beautiful, but it’s not for everyone.

“You know Peggy, she always does the opposite of whatever’s expected.”  The corners of Steve’s lips twitch. “She’s showing it to us tomorrow.”

“Us?”  Bucky asks cautiously.

There’s only one male part in _Afternoon of a Faun,_ and Bucky assumes Peggy would want Steve to dance it.  They’ve worked together since Steve was nineteen, and Peggy was forty, newly retired.  She’s famous for designing small productions that run for only a few nights, but are always the talk of the town.  They don’t make much money, unlike the company’s biggest productions, but she’s nurtured their reputation as innovators on an international scale.  Usually she debuts her ballets with one cast. And they dance their roles the entire run. It’s a risky gamble. If a dancer is injured, and no one else knows the choreography, the whole production might be boxed for the next season.

“You, me, and Natasha.  She wants to see you with her choreography tomorrow.”  Steve smiles brightly. “I think the part would be perfect for you.  It’s not as cardio intensive as her usual pieces. It just requires a dancer with a strong personality.”

Bucky smiles softly, mouth turning up in one corner.  “A week ago, she implied that I’d have _Bolero_ next season.  Did you have something to do with that?”

Steve swirls a chip in ketchup, lowering his eyes sheepishly.

“Spend a lot of time discussing me, do you?”  Bucky teases.

Steve flushes a bright pink.  His chip gets smushed into a ketchupy mash as he stammers out,  “I— I showed her your pas de deux from _Don Quixote_.  She loved your expressions.”

Bucky sets down his fork, smile dropping in an instant.  “Where did you find that?”

Evidently noticing his adverse reaction, Steve continues on more carefully.  “YouTube, on your old company’s channel. Are you alright?”

Bucky's lips purse in displeasure.  “They still have my stuff up, huh?”

Steve leans across the table, expression serious.  “You want them to take it down?”

“I don’t want to be associated with them anymore.”  Bucky crumples his napkin, throwing it onto his plate, unable to stomach his last few bites of steak.  “They ruined so much.” Bucky swallows, throat dry. “Far as I’m concerned, Pierce can rot in hell.”

Steve touches the back of his hand.  “I can help you get in touch with a lawyer,”  he says earnestly. “I know a great one, Matt’s worked with dancers before.”

Bucky wonders if he means the same Matt Murdock that filed the restraining order against Rumlow.  “I don’t think I could get a cease and desist, I signed a contract when I started out.”

Steve frowns, squeezing Bucky’s hand.  “Yeah, when you were sixteen and your parents couldn't afford a lawyer.  They took advantage of you.”

Bucky sighs, and calls for the bill.  “Sixteen and stupid doesn’t hold up in court, we both know that.  Plus, I can’t afford it, the legal fees would be astronomical. I nearly bankrupted myself getting away from them in the first place.”

Even Steve can’t argue with that.

Steve stays over that night, instead of making the drive back to his condo in Beverly Hills.  Bucky makes sure to slip the _Bolero_ DVD out of the player while Steve's in the bathroom, tucking it into his bedside drawer.  When he goes to the corner store, he buys two bags of ice. Mr. Sharma raises his brows, but ultimately says nothing.  That is, until Bucky pulls out two vouchers for _The Nutcracker_.  After that, he’s all smiles.

When he returns home, he finds Steve with his nose buried in Peggy’s  _ Vanity Fair  _ magazine.

“I didn’t know she was married until I read that,”  Bucky comments, passing by Steve on his way to the kitchen.

Peggy’s interview briefly mentions an ex-husband.  One that wasn’t involved in ballet. Long hours and backbreaking commitment to the art are not easy on relationships with outsiders.  In their industry the most successful marriages are always those to other dancers.

“Yeah.”  Steve scowls and sets aside the magazine.  “She was. He was the worst.”

As it turns out there’s nothing more depressing than watching a nature documentary about monkeys relaxing in hot springs while suffering through icing his feet.  At least Steve’s sharing in the pain. While the swelling reduces in his ankles, Bucky eats a big bowl of Cheerios to make up for all the work he did in the studio.  They're his favourite kind, the cinnamon apple flavour that reminds him of his ma's apple cake.

He scarfs it down like a man starved, then dumps the bowl on the coffee table, a tablespoon of sugary almond milk left at the bottom.  Steve wordlessly passes over Bucky’s notebook, eyes still fixed on the TV. Bucky murmurs his thanks. He records the snack, does the math, and finds he’s at his goal for the day.

Later, he relaxes in the tub while Steve sits on the toilet lid, feet on the bath’s edge.  His toes dip into the warm water, and Bucky rolls up the hems of his sweats so they don’t get wet.  Steve has Peggy’s notations on his phone, and he reads them out loud. Bucky closes his eyes, listening to Steve’s soothing voice, relaxing in the bubbles.

A flirting faun chases a giggling nymph.  She teases him, and he goes mad with lust.  He’s an animal, a beast, a horny teenager. They circle each other in a sultry courtship.  She’s anything but timid. She's downright forward. They touch only at the end; starting with a clasp of arms that releases all the building tension in one moment.

When _Afternoon of a Faun_ debuted in 1912 the original ending was beyond scandalous.  Just not for the reason a modern audience would suspect. Back in 1912, the very presence of an implied sexual act was enough to raise critics’ hackles.  The nymph flees the faun, dropping her veil as she goes. He takes it as a prize, and withdraws with it to his lair, where he uses it to masturbate. Very creepy.

In Peggy’s version, the nymph does not leave.  She stays with the faun and together they ascend to his mound where he worships her.  She wraps her legs around his waist, clinging tight, and they move in sync. It’s far beyond suggestive, it’s provocative.  It’s filthy.  It’s brilliant.  There’s a reason Peggy is a world renowned choreographer, and this is it.  In the original ballet, the nymph has no agency.  She’s a object of the faun’s desire. Peggy gives her freedom and choice.

Bucky wants nothing more than to be a part of it.

Steve’s glasses slide down his nose.  The lenses are fogged near opaque, it’s a wonder he can see anything through them.  Steve always wears contacts during the day, but never at night. He’s had the same plastic wayfarers since he was a teenager.  He can be so frugal sometimes, but they make him look adorably nerdy. Even with a holey sleep shirt that hangs off his shoulders.

Fanning his hot face, Bucky wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.  Is it just him, or is there no air in here? He huffs, skin humid and sticky.  Yeah, no air.

Bucky stands, and water sluices down his body in rivulets.  He cracks open the small window above the tub, letting some of the steam dissipate into the night.  When he turns back to Steve, he finds him staring. There’s an unreadable look in his eyes as they move down Bucky’s body.

They’ve never been shy around each other.  Hell, they used to take baths together when they were toddlers.  And yet, Steve’s gaze is a searing hot brand in its intensity. For the first time since he was a gangly teenager, Bucky feels overly conscious of his nudity.

Lightheaded, he quickly sits, leg bent in the now bubbleless water.

Steve blinks.  He looks down at his phone, and continues where he left off.  There’s a flush on his cheeks, and Bucky has a feeling it has nothing to do with the heat.

Later, Steve doesn’t climb into his bed like he always does.  He takes the couch. Bucky lies on top of the sheets, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what the hell just happened.

When he finally falls into a troubled sleep, he dreams he’s all alone on a brightly lit stage, dancing and dancing for an empty theatre.  His bones creak, his blisters tear open. A trail of blood is left pooled in his wake; a snaking, smeared river. Steve swoops in on a glittery curtain of moss and ivy, a crown of snowdrops in his hair.  He picks Bucky up and flies him into the burning centre of the sun.

 


	4. the company

## the company

Jupiter’s a stinking piece of shit.  Not the planet—to be clear—Jupiter, the damn cat.  Bucky decides this when he wakes to her standing on his chest, tail lifted, her asshole only a few inches from his face.  This fucking cat. This piece of work.

He lifts her off him, and dumps her on the other side of the bed.  The side that should have been occupied by Steve. She nips at his fingers in accusation, all _zee, you stale baguette, you andouille sausage, zis is what you get for pushing away your best friend_ .  She’s French in his head.  The altruistic cat lady he’d adopted her from was all too free with her _voulez-vous coucher avec moi_ s.

A headache brews at his temples, but he can’t afford it turning into a full on migraine.  Not today.

Popping a Tylenol, Steve walks into his bedroom just as he’s capping the lid.  His eyes flicker down to the bottle, and he frowns deeply. Bucky shoves it back in his bedside drawer.  It’s nothing to be ashamed about. It's just... Rumlow’s addiction sprung from a chronic hip injury, and a physician that was only too happy to write prescription after prescription instead of actually fixing the problem.  Steve’s had a fraught relationship with painkillers ever since.

“I was just checking my email.”  Steve jerks a finger over his shoulder, but his gaze travels back to the drawer where the Tylenol disappeared.  “You okay?” Steve asks, looking back at Bucky in worry. “Is it your foot?”

“Stress,”  Bucky says, pointing at his head, and Steve nods, holding up his phone.  His eyes are red, like he’s been crying.

“Did you get the email from Fury?”

“What’s email?”  Bucky asks, worried.  Wrestling his robe away from Jupiter’s claws, he pulls it over his bare shoulders.

“Mr. Erskine passed away last night in his sleep.  Fury mentioned nothing about the circumstances, so I assumed old age, but the news reports are saying carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“Wait…  Abraham Erskine?  Your former ballet master?”  Bucky says, tying a knot around his middle with the belt.  “Didn’t you and Sharon visit him in Palo Alto a few months ago?  I’m so sorry, Steve.”

Steve shrugs.  If he's trying to appear unaffected, he's not succeeding.  The grief on his face gives away everything. “He was really old, and suffering from Alzheimer's.  He barely recognized us. I’ve been expecting it for a long time. Just not like this. Especially not right after Sharon.”

“It happens,”  Bucky says sympathetically, reaching out to squeeze Steve's elbow.

“I dunno,”  Steve says, dejected.

Jupiter bats him on the thigh, claws in desperate need of a trim.  “Alright, alright, I’ll feed you,” he hisses at her.

In the kitchen he measures and lays out food for Jupiter, then grabs two bowls from the cupboard.  Pouring himself a serving of granola with almond milk, he offers the box to Steve.

“You didn’t see where he was living,”  Steve says, shaking his head at the granola, instead going straight for a pan.  “Where’s your chicken fat?” Steve asks, frowning at his near empty fridge.

Bucky scoffs.  “Schmaltz? Surely you can’t be serious.”  He shovels the granola into his pie hole, wishing he’d bought the cashew milk instead of the almond.

“I am serious, and don’t—”

“Yes, yes, don’t call me Shirley.”  He jerks his head over to the avocado oil.

“Your ma would be so disappointed.”  Steve pours an ungodly amount of oil into the pan, frying up a couple eggs.  He grabs a plate from the cupboard, dumping a pile of slightly burnt scrambled eggs onto it.  “Something’s bothering me about this.”

“What is it?”  Bucky asks, hopping onto the countertop with his bowl.

Steve settles in next to him with his plate, his hip touching Bucky’s thigh.  “Every single window in the house was open when we visited. His nurse said he couldn’t sleep if they were shut.  But, if a window was open, and there was carbon monoxide it would have dissipated.”

“The nights are getting colder,”  Bucky points out, swirling the spoon in the bowl.

“Not that cold.”  Steve’s fork clinks against the plate as he digs in.  “I dunno, Buck, it’s just weird.”

“I'm sure the police would notice foul play.”

Steve rubs a hand over his stubbly chin.  “I guess I feel some obligation. He paid my registration fee for the Prix, then bought me a plane ticket to Switzerland.  In a way I owe my career to him.”

Bucky rubs a hand over his back, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder.  At the last moment, he runs a curious knuckle down the hollow of Steve’s cheek, bristles rough against his skin.  “C'mon, you need a shave.”

Steve sighs wearily.  “Remember, we have Peggy’s audition today.”

Bucky spoons more granola into his mouth.  “How could I forget?”

***

Peggy chooses Steve, and Bucky should have known.  She always chooses Steve.

Right after he gets the email, he stares off into the distance, and hates Steve like he’s never hated him before.  Not because he got the part. Deep down Bucky always knew he would. He hates him for getting his hopes up.

Bucky’s getting old.  He’s twenty-nine, and as the seasons pass, it seems more and more likely that he’ll never be anything but a soloist for the rest of his career.  If a dancer doesn't become a principal before thirty, it's probably never going to happen. Despite the fact that he was a principal in his old company, he had to take a demotion to be accepted into this one.  Different standards of quality, Fury said. Different standards, his lily white ass.

He doesn’t have the patience to wait on the off chance Peggy will cast him in _Bolero_ next season.  He wanted the faun _this_ season.

He’s never going to sit beside Steve on his throne.  He’s not good enough, he’s not light enough, he’s not strong enough.  He’s not enough.

He’s not Steve.

Bucky sets down his phone, and returns to his stretches.

He dances until he sweats buckets, until his legs quiver with strain.  Until he can’t fucking hear anything Coulson says from all the buzzing in his ears.  Slowly and surely he beats his body into submission.

Jealousy is an ugly, useless emotion.  He tamps it down and kills it.

***

Steve finds him in the archives.  He has his earphones in, so he doesn’t notice until he feels a light tap on his shoulder.  Steve slips into the roller chair at the next station.

“I was so sure,”  he says with a deep frown.

Bucky looks at him, then pauses the video, freezing Jorge Donn mid leap.  He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

Steve chews on his bottom lip, staring down at his hands.  “I know that coming to LA was hard for you. Especially since you had _everything_ in New York.”

_Not everything_ , Bucky nearly says.

“You deserve to shine.”  Steve looks at him, determination in his eyes.  “I’m going to tell Peggy that I can’t dance the faun.  The part should be yours.”

Bucky groans, thumping his head against the desk.  “Don’t be an idiot.” Pushing his hair back from his face, he says,  “I don’t want the part just because you’ve refused it.”

“I—”  Bucky holds up a finger, and Steve shuts his mouth with a click.

“Peggy gave it to you because she designed it for you, as she does all her pieces.”

“Bucky…”  Steve says sadly.

“There are other performances that need a soloist.  Just because there’s no choreography specifically for me, doesn’t mean I won’t be dancing this season.”  The Jiří Kylián triple bill has finished its run, but he's already been cast in _Mayerling,_ Peggy’s _Midsummer,_ and _The Nutcracker._  He’s going to be busy preparing for no less than twenty shows between those productions.

“It was perfect for you.”

Bucky shakes his head.  “Evidently Peggy does not agree, and she knows best about who can represent her work.”

“I think you would be amazing,”  Steve near whispers, stubborn as a damn mule.

Frustrated, Bucky pushes back from the computer.  He ejects the DVD, and signs it out at the front desk.  Jerking his head to the stairs, he shifts his bag on his shoulder.  “C’mon, let’s see who’s right.”

They find an empty studio.  Bucky flicks on the lights, tossing his bag in the corner.  He begins his warm-ups, while Steve watches from the doorway.  Bucky frowns at him. “Well?” Steve hurries over. Pulling off his boots, Steve starts his own warm-up.

“What are we doing, Buck?”  Steve asks, ten minutes in, legs spread in the splits, holding onto one ankle, his chest kissing the floor.

“We are going to dance Peggy’s choreography.  I’ll be the faun, and you the nymph.” It won’t be perfectly Peggy’s without her here to direct, but they both know enough to feel the piece out.  Any other ballet, and Steve could not dance Natasha’s part. Bucky wouldn’t be able to support his weight. However, _Afternoon of a Faun_ has no lifts, so the strength of the dancer matters not.

Steve frowns in confusion, but nods anyway, turning his body to stretch his other leg.  They finish their warm-up on the barre. Bucky didn’t bring his bluetooth speakers, since Erik was scheduled for rehearsals, so he turns up his phone’s volume as loud as it will go, leaning it against the baseboards.

Muted woodwinds introduce the piece, and Bucky reclines on the floor.  He's a mischievous faun with a flute in hand, waking up from a provocative dream.

Steve’s but a flash of blonde in the corner of his eye.  He’s light as a whisper, two hundred pounds of muscle, and he makes nary a sound.  Bucky slips to his feet in one movement, his gaze fixed sorely on Steve.

And the courtship begins.

The faun climbs from his perch, startling the nymph.  She circles Bucky, studying him. The nymph is cautious in her movements, but she’s curious.  Intrigued even.

The faun throws his head back, grinning at the sight of her.  He approaches, body open, displaying his strength, his willingness, his desire.  The nymph slips away just before he touches her, and Steve looks at him through long lashes, dark and fluttering.  He’s so fucking beautiful.

Bucky stumbles, but the faun and nymph are supposed to flow around each other.  At times in sync, and sometimes greatly disjointed. Courting each other in two very different ways.  They lock arms, and they lock eyes, touching each other for the first time. Steve stares at him, and in Nijinsky's original this is when the nymph makes her escape.

This time, she stays.

Steve grabs onto Bucky, pulling him in close.  Their gaze never breaks for a second as they stand chest to chest.  The music softens, and Steve’s mouth parts slightly. His eyes say what his mouth cannot.  They can stop here. This can be the end, Bucky has proved his point. Steve tries to pull away, but Bucky digs his fingers in, hard enough to make him wince.

They move together, every step coordinated.  Bucky’s been watching Steve dance since they were children.  He would know him in his sleep.

Steve lowers himself to the floor, and Bucky follows.

Steve’s a deer in the headlights.  His chest heaves, not from exertion, but from something else entirely.  Bucky runs his hand down Steve’s thigh, bringing his leg up to his hips.  Cautiously, Steve’s hands slip around his back, clinging tight. He shouldn’t be so meek.  Peggy’s nymph is confident, sure in her sexuality. She is anything but meek.

“Hold me tighter,”  Bucky says, but Steve just shakes his head.  The music ends with a confused Bucky, and a wide-eyed Steve beneath him.

“Bucky,”  Steve croaks, face red.  Bucky opens his mouth, but he’s interrupted by soft applause.  He looks up to find Peggy standing by the door, Director Fury beside her.

“Pegs,”  Steve starts, eyes wide like he’s seen a ghost.  Abruptly, he pushes Bucky off him, rolling away. His forehead scrunches up, and he bites his lip.  He looks devastated, and Bucky doesn’t understand why. “Pegs, it’s not—”

“That was brilliant,”  Peggy says with a sad smile.

***

The offer goes like this: Bucky will dance in _Afternoon of a Faun_ , just not for the part he expected.  He won’t be the faun, that’s still Steve’s.  Bucky will have Natasha’s part for one rehearsal.  It will be recorded, and used to promote the upcoming season.

If social media responds well to their _experiment_ , Fury will allow them one night in a studio set up to seat a hundred and fifty people.  They won’t have access to an orchestra, just two pianists playing a reduction. If they manage to sell every single ticket, and only if, Fury will think about scheduling another performance at the tail end of the run.

It’s nothing.  Barely a concession.  Peggy throws a fuss and demands the main stage, but Fury denies her.  It’s nothing personal. Their company is old, and it is traditional for all that this is a contemporary ballet.

Of course when the calendar is revealed, the board throws a fuss.  A man cannot be a nymph, they say. Still, Fury does not budge. It remains in the programme.

Nothing personal.

***

“I hear you plan on usurping my position,”  Natasha says slyly, sitting beside him during break.  She’s the highest paid principal in the company, and the only Vaganova trained dancer they have.  A thick layer of tape sticks to the back of her ankles; a preventative measure. Tendonitis nearly benched her last season.  But after a long summer in Amsterdam, she’s up and dancing again, stronger than ever.

In the company, rumours spread like wildfire, and it didn’t take long for the other dancers to start gossiping over her absence.  They say she visited a drug den during her trip, buying enough heroin to last the rest of her career. They say she injects it straight into her feet.  Others say she’s addicted to a cocktail of Vicodin and Percocet, that she grinds up the pills and mixes them into her protein shakes.

Bucky knows the truth; she was in Amsterdam off season, that is true.  Everything else? Not so much. She spent three weeks lying on a table, while a physiotherapist fixed her ankles.  She was bored enough to Skype Bucky at least five times during her appointments. God knows how many times she called Steve.

That’s the great thing about Natasha.  She’ll booze and party up and down the red carpet on the arm of a different celebrity week after week, but when it comes to her career, she’s completely devoted.  She won’t let anything less than a debilitating injury stop her.

He wordlessly offers up a clementine, and she accepts it with a smirk.  “Just be glad they’re not making me share your costume,” Bucky teases. He has a fitting in a few hours, and hopes he won’t have to deal with Tony.

“Good thing too, you’d rip it right down the middle,”  Natasha snarks, her Rs sharp like a dagger. Her accent is always at its thickest when she’s being a smart ass.

“What’s your schedule this season?”  He asks, “Let me guess, you’re dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy opening night?”

“How ever did you know,”  she says with a roll of her eyes, lying on her back as she peels the clementine.  “I’m just this company’s moneymaker.”

Speaking of moneymakers.  Bucky spots Steve on the other side of the studio with Sam, and M'Baku—one of two guest artists from the Wakandan Royal Company, the other being Okoye.  Bucky tries not to feel irritated about being ditched by his usual break buddy. Steve’s allowed to have friends other than him.

Bucky pouts.  At least Natasha’s keeping him company.

“That you are,”  Bucky says, tearing his eyes away from Steve.

She sighs dramatically, breaking the fruit into segments.  “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t. Nick is making me set aside two of my least worn pointe shoes to be auctioned off during the gala.  All the other principal girls only have to dig up one.”

“Think of the aspiring ballerinas who just want a signed piece of the great Natalia Romanova.  Don’t tell me you didn’t dance in someone else’s shoes before you could commission your own?”

“That’s all well and good, _if_ they were to be purchased by aspiring ballerinas.  But we both know the only people who can afford to attend the gala are celebrities.  Or rich old men with foot fetishes,” she leans closer, whispering conspiratorially, “And the celebrities aren’t the ones bidding on the shoes.”

Bucky laughs so hard tears come to his eyes.  “I can’t imagine all the shellac you use to stiffen them would be good for such purposes.”

She makes a face.  “And thank God for that.  If some old man wants to jerk off into a pointe shoe, they’re better off bidding on Pepper’s.  She likes them soft.”

“I’ll even microwave them beforehand.  Anything for the company,” Pepper says, walking by, a fresh pair of sewn shoes in hand.  Pepper’s shoemaker is notorious for going overboard with the glue. All the girls who use his shoes have to nuke them to soften the glue before they can break the shank cleanly.  All to get that beautiful arch.

Natasha steals another fruit as Bucky sets about taking care of his feet.  A cotton pad soaked in rubbing alcohol toughens his skin, and a layer of tape wrapped around his toes prevents any blisters.  He won’t have to go on pointe this season, unlike the girls, but it all adds up after a while. Prevention is the best medicine.

“I bought you a ticket to _Mayerling_ ’s final show,”  Natasha says, “And I checked your schedule, so I know you’re free.”

“Presumptuous,”  Bucky says, slipping his kit back into his bag.

She smirks like a cat.  “You can watch my bedroom pas de deux with Steve.  He does an awful many lifts as Prince Rudolf, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Bucky’s never actually seen Steve’s _Mayerling_.  Prince Rudolf is one of the most intensive roles for a male dancer.  The first act is fast paced, and the entire ballet features numerous lifts.  He imagines it would show off Steve’s athleticism perfectly. Bucky looks over to Steve, and thinks about all the ways he will have to fling Natasha around like she weighs nothing.

Natasha chuckles.  “Well, that is new.”  She returns to her exercises on the barre, leaving him confused, and a bit awkwardly turned on.

***

The costume department is what one would call an organized mess.  A mess, because when Bucky walks in, it looks like a tornado blew through it.  Bolts of fabrics galore, padded dress forms, and costume bibles older than Fury himself open on work tables.  Organized, because everyone who works here knows exactly what they’re doing. Somehow this department maintains and refits well over a thousand costumes a year.  Not to mention creating new ones.

He nearly walks into a hammer-wielding Peter whacking away at a corset’s boning.  Bucky still finds it hard to believe that he's not fifteen.

Looking up at Bucky, he grins.  “You’re early.”

Peter takes him by the arm, weaving him though the mess.  On the way, Bucky spots the woman who fitted him for his _Mayerling_ costume, deft fingers working to steam and tack the layers of netting on a tutu, absolutely consumed in her work.  They're a dedicated bunch down here.

“Tony’s waiting for you,”  Peter says.

“Damnit,”  Bucky mutters under his breath.  He was hoping he’d be fitted by someone other than Tony.  Literally _anyone_.  Bucky would much rather deal with a circus seal.  At least then the worse he’d have to put up with is fish breath.  Tony’s eccentric, to say the least. Broadway does that to a person.

Tony pops his head out of storage like a carnival mole ripe for whacking.  He gestures in what he probably intends to be a flourish, but instead falls short into awkwardly jerky.  “Tony Stark, genius, inventor, reformed playboy.”

“Head of costumes,”  Peter adds.

“Head of costumes, extraordinaire,”  Tony says.

Bucky rolls his eyes.  “I know who you are, Tony, we’ve met.  Pepper invited me to your wedding, remember?”

“Lovely,”  Tony says, clicking his heels.  “Stand over there, and take your shirt off.”

Bucky knows the drill.  He gets down to his tights, and stands on the platform in the centre of the mirrored fitting room.  Peter runs off, then returns with a dress similar to Natasha’s own. It’s a creamy transparent silk in the style of a Grecian peplos, but the bottom fades into a orangey-red, like a sunset.  To the audience it’ll look like he’s not wearing anything underneath, when in reality he’ll have on nude tights.

Peggy decided against cutting the costume to the knees to masculinize it.  Yet another reason he loves her creative decisions. Queer it up, she always says.

Even so, it’s nothing compared to Steve’s costume: tights printed to look like a spotted goat hide, and a waistband of golden flowers and leaves.  Not to mention the silicone pieces they’ll be affixing to his ears to make them pointed. Bucky’s seen the illustrations, it’s _something_ all right.

“Romanova will wear the belt under her breasts,”  Tony says, finally talking shop like the professional Bucky knows he can be when he’s not too busy being a kook.  “I spoke with Peggy, and we both decided it would be best to drop it to your waist.” He gestures to Bucky’s flat chest.  “For obvious reasons.”

Bucky lifts his hands, and Tony slides the costume on.  It settles lightly on his skin. Compared to the tight tunics and leotards he’s used to, the silk is so airy.  It’s a simple rectangular design, a sleeveless cut to show off his arms, but the neckline is high to his collarbones.  He expected it to look more feminine. Instead, it is very androgynous.

“The accessories are all Joseff of Hollywood originals, on loan from the family.”  Tony says proudly, clipping a rope-like chain around his waist, a gold cicada hanging from the end of the chain.  He frowns when Bucky looks at him quizzically. “Be impressed.”

“Wow,”  Bucky says, deadpan.

“Romanova was impressed.”  Tony pouts.

“Hmm,”  Bucky says, doing a tiny spin, watching the silk float after him.  He lifts his legs, going through various exercises, and decides that it isn’t constricting in the slightest.

“It’s good,”  he tells Tony.

“You’re damn right it’s good,”  he says, removing the belt, pulling the dress off Bucky.  “You’re going to have your hair down, and a flower wreath around your head.  Peter found this gold hair paint in Chinatown, comes in a can and everything.”

“Chinatown?”  Bucky says skeptically.

“Yup.”  Tony holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers.  “Which is why we’re doing an allergy test. Gimme your hand.”

Tony spays the paint on the underside of his arm, and tells Bucky to let him know if he develops a rash over the next twenty-four hours.  It’s a thankless job, truly.

He slips back into his own clothes, while Tony talks with Peter.  “Add more gold appliqué to the order. The geometric set,” Bucky hears Tony say as he leaves,  “And more paste stones, lots more paste stones. Too many paste stones. I wanna be drowning in paste stones by the end of the week.”

Bucky grins.  Seems the company’s doing _Jewels_ next season.  He’ll have to let Natasha know, she loves Balanchine’s ballets.

His phone rings just as he’s leaving the costume department.  A quick glance at the name on the screen, and he picks the call.

“Loki,”  he greets.

“Remember our little conversation the other day?”  Loki says in lieu of a greeting.

Bucky glances around him.  A woman waits by the elevator, so he ducks into a nearby nook.  “About Steve?” He whispers into the line.

“Yes,”  Loki states, matter of fact.  “The client has not contacted us in three days.  Meaning they have either given up, or they have dropped our services.  I believe it is the latter. They are displeased with our high quality bullshit.”

“What does that mean?”  He asks, clutching at the strap of his bag.

“They have likely contacted another agency.”

“But you know who they are?”  Bucky asks, hopefully.

“I only know what they were looking for.  Names, dates, people from Mr. Rogers’ past.  They wanted to know the tiniest details about him, from the size of his mortgage, to how much he spends on motorcycle insurance.  We did manage to trace the banking info further, even though it led to another dead end. Literally.”

“What?”

“The client used the identity of a deceased individual, a man, but records are sealed, and I cannot look into his background any further.”

Bucky sighs wearily.  “What now?”

Loki seem to consider his question for a moment.  “You should tell him.”

Bucky shakes his head, even though Loki can’t see it.  “I can’t do that, Steve already has enough to deal with.”

Loki’s silence sits heavy on the other end of the line.

“Loki?”

“So do you, James,”  he finally says. “Do not let this eat away at you.  Tell him. Surely, of all people, he will know who is out for his blood.”


	5. invincible

## invincible

Bucky sits in on Steve’s _Mayerling_ rehearsals during lunch, resolutely avoiding thoughts about Loki’s advice.

Wanda occupies the chair next to his, sewing a pair of pointe shoes.  He’s always appreciated how quickly a ballerina can break down a shoe, then reconstruct it into something that’s perfect for their individual needs.  Wanda is a nice girl, and a good partner. She's eager to prove herself, and even more eager to push herself. Bucky always thought he was the only dancer stupid enough to stay long hours in the studio.  Then he walked in on Wanda spinning like Cinderella at midnight. In a few years—if she loses the bad habit of staying up past her recommended bedtime—she could be as good as Natasha.

Flipping through his alerts while he eats, a headline catches his attention.  Frowning, Bucky clicks on the link.

“Hey,”  he says to Wanda, and she looks up from her sewing.  “Did you know a Jack Rollins? I’ve heard his name before.”

She stares at him in a way that’s all too familiar.  He’s seen that ‘are you fucking stupid?’ expression on his sister’s face too many times to count.  Nice to know Becca’s haunting him from all the way across the country.

“Your boyfriend was the reason Rollins left the company.”

Bucky chokes on nothing.  “Steve isn’t my boyfriend,”  he says all in a rush.

She lifts a single eyebrow, and actually looks surprised.  “Aren’t you two together?”

“Definitely not.”  He glances at Steve, at those long legs in the tight shorts he’s wearing.  His knees are red, sunburnt to a crisp. Sunblock, Steve, goddamnit.

“Oh,”  she says skeptically.  “It’s only, I follow him on Instagram.  Well, actually, we’re mutuals now. He just followed me back.”  She blushes. “He’s always posting pictures of you.”

“We’re just friends,”  Bucky mutters.

“Oh, cool...”  She rubs her thumb over her shoe’s champagne satin, smiling shyly.

“Rollins?”  Bucky urges.

“Right, him,”  she says less than enthusiastically.  “When Steve was promoted, Rollins stopped getting the good roles.  It was a big deal when I was still in the academy. Everyone said he tried to punch Steve, and Sharon Carter had to pull them apart.  How could you not know? It was seriously the _biggest_ thing.”

“So you’ve said,”  Bucky says wryly.

“He was a misogynistic prick.  He claimed ballerinas were nothing without male dancers.”  She leans in close, lowering her voice. “There are rumours that he harassed his partners.  I’m glad he ran off to wherever. Steve’s so much better than he ever was.”

“Santa Barbara,”  Bucky says, glancing down at his phone.  “He was in Santa Barbara. And I guess it’s good you didn’t like him, because he’s dead as a doornail.”  He holds up his phone, showing her the headline: _Retired Dancer Dead In Robbery Gone Wrong._

Her lips part in surprise, but then her eyes go steely.  “I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I really didn’t like him.  Can’t say I’m all that torn up about it.” She shrugs. “It’s just weird when someone you used to know—but didn’t really _know_ —dies.  He’s no longer out there being horrible to other people, and I really couldn’t give a rat’s ass about him.  You know what I mean?”

Yeah, somehow Bucky understands the exact point she's trying to get across.

When he’s finished his lunch, he records it in his notebook, watching Steve and Natasha out of the corner of his eye, so not to miss a thing.  Bucky plays a minor role in the same ballet, but with another cast. He knows all the solo parts like the back of his hand, but each cast brings a different feeling to _Mayerling_.

Bruce, the répétiteur for all five casts, hums the music in the absence of their pianist.  Erik was scheduled to play during rehearsals, but he didn't show. Not even for morning class.  Last Friday Erik mentioned that he would be hiking in Big Sur with his golden retriever. It abruptly rained something crazy on Saturday, so he's probably home waylaid with a cold.  The poor guy.

“Last night’s performance was good, but it could have been better,”  Bruce says. “You have to turn your body into it, Steve, or when her arm goes around your neck she’s going to choke you.”

“Erotic asphyxiation is not part of the choreography?”  Natasha jokes.

“Unfortunately not,”  Bruce says wryly.

“Shame.”  Natasha takes a running leap.  Looping her arm around Steve’s neck, she swings right around him.  He dips her, then sets her back on her feet with flourish. Bucky thinks it is perfectly executed, but Bruce makes them do it again and again.  When the act finishes with Steve and Natasha lying on the floor, they’re both panting for breath.

Bucky grabs two towels, throwing one over Steve’s head.  “Thanks,” Steve mumbles, climbing to his feet, helping Natasha up like a perfect gentleman.  Bucky hands her the other towel, and she drapes it over her shoulders. She grabs a bottle of Gatorade, taking a long drink.

“Well done,”  Bruce says distractedly, looking over Maria’s shoulder at the choreology for the next scene.  “Wanda, come up here, we’ll go over your solo.”

Soon Bucky has to head over to the healthcare suite for an appointment with the physio.  His foot has been bothering him again, but he figures he could stick around for a little while longer.  Just until Steve has to join Wanda for their pas de deux.

“You want to catch a game later?  I have tickets.” Steve asks, collapsing in the chair beside him.  His worn henley has a hole in the armpit, and it makes Bucky chuckle.

“Sure, why not,”  he says, turning to face Steve.  “Who’s play—”

A sudden pop, like a bottle of soda opening, and a horrible shriek cuts him off.  Steve is up and out of his chair in an instant.

Wanda lies on the floor, clutching her knee.  Tears stream down her agonized face, smearing mascara on her cheeks.  Without even thinking about it, Bucky pulls out his phone, dialing 911.

“Oh my god!”  Wanda cries, paler than death.  Steve grabs a sweater from a chair, tucking it under her head.  Natasha grabs for her hand, her hair a curtain of red as she’s bent over, whispering to her.  Bucky stares at her, at her fear, her pain, he’s— his eyes widen, and he— he can’t _breathe_ —

“Sir, sir?”  The voice on the other end of the line is just a tinny.  His mouth works, but no words come out.

_...I want to feel his agony!  Jamie, throw yourself to the stage!  Be convincing! I wouldn’t believe your Albrecht if his legs were flayed bloody…_

“Sir, what is your location?”

Bucky makes a reedy noise in his throat, and Steve looks up in alarm.  Oh god, oh god, fucking— He spits out the company’s address. His voice grates like it’s going through a meat grinder, but it’s out, he got the words out, and that’s all that matters.  

“My knee, my knee,”  Wanda keeps repeating over and over.  She tries to move, but Natasha fights to hold her still.  Bucky clenches his jaw, his hand shakes, his entire body shakes, but he can’t deal with this now.  He stumbles over to help. They can’t allow her to move an inch, it might aggravate her injury.

“You’re going to be fine,”  Bucky says grimly, jaw clenched,  “The ambulance will be here soon.”

“It’s not that bad,”  she pleads, sweat beading on her forehead.  She must be in so much pain. “I’m okay, I’m fine, guys, please, help me up.”  Wanda whimpers, and Natasha pushes her hair out of her eyes.

Her solo has a lot of jumps, and combined with her sleeping habits, it’s no wonder she fell.  She's so young, and that's the problem with younger dancers; they think they're invincible. He thought the same of himself.  Once upon a time.

“You’re good, Wanda, you’re good,”  Steve says, but Wanda only struggles harder, trying to get up.

“I can still dance, please,”  she sobs, lashing out at Natasha, but she just dodges her weakly swinging fists.  “Please, oh god, please, I can still dance.”

Bucky presses down on her shoulders, glancing up at Steve.  His eyes are wide and scared as he shakes his head. She’s out for the season.  A sound like that can mean only a few things, all of them requiring a hospital visit, none of them with an easy recovery.

“Fuck me, this is so fucked up,”  Wanda cries, glancing between the two of them.  She covers her face with her balled fists. “No, no, _no!_ ”

***

At the end of the day, Steve waits for him by his car, quiet and sad.  “Can we take yours?”

The city lights reflect off his hood as he takes the 110 up to Dodgers’ Stadium.  They ride in silence, but for Stevie Nicks’ dulcet tones flowing from his speakers.  A comedian once said that _Rumours_ was written by and for people cheating on each other.  Bucky supposes that is pretty awful. At least the angst makes for damn good music.

He wishes he could forget the look on Wanda’s face when she was loaded into the back of the ambulance.  Bucky promises himself no more long nights in the studio. Lack of sleep leads so often to injury. He can't believe he forgot that.  There’s nothing quite like being scared into going to bed at a reasonable time.

The paramedic said her ACL must have torn partially, if not all the way through.  Thankfully, surgery is an option. She’s young, so she should bounce back easily enough.  One thing's for sure: she’s sitting out the rest of the season. Recovery is nine months, minimum.  Even then, there’s no guarantee she’ll be able to dance the way she did before. Surgeons can fix almost everything nowadays, but knees are still finicky.

“Don’t think about it,”  Steve says, as Bucky parks the car, shutting off the engine.  “It’ll mess with your head if you let it.”

Bucky climbs out, shutting the door behind him.  “It’s just shitty that Wanda drew the short straw in the luck department.”

Steve walks around the car to his side, face awash with emotion.  “You’re scared of getting injured again,” Steve says, hitting the nail right on the head.

“I’m terrified.”  He closes his eyes, shivering in his thin coat.  “I’m terrified of falling, of hearing my bones breaking.  You don’t know what it’s like. It comes from inside you, and it’s so confusing, because you don’t feel it at first, it’s just this rush of blood in your ears.  Even then, the pain is just a symptom. It hurts, fuck does it ever hurt, but it’s the shit running through your mind that’s worse. All you can think is that this is it, this is my career gone to the dogs.  All that work, all those years down the drain because I landed wrong on a fucking jump.”

Steve has no answer for him.  He pulls him into a hug, tucking his head under his chin.  Steve places one big hand on the side of his face, and Bucky shuts his eyes, taking the comfort when it’s given.  “Tomorrow we’ll pay Wanda a visit. We’ll bring her a massive bunch of flowers.”

“You and your flowers.”  Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s waist, walking them to the stadium entrance.  “You had this ridiculous bouquet sent to me when I was in the hospital, do you remember?”

“Course I do.”  Steve ruffles his hair.  “I asked for the biggest bunch the florist could arrange in a day’s time.”

Bucky laughs.  He still has the picture his ma took.  Sitting in a hospital bed, hollow eyed in a paper gown, holding the stupidest bouquet he’d ever seen in his life.  It was the size of his torso, and every colour of the rainbow. He hadn’t laughed about it then. He’d cried over the card tucked among all the blooms.

When they’d spoken later, Steve said the florist had called him in a panic.  She’d been trying to reach him for hours, but he’d been on stage. She was terrified that Steve had emailed her the wrong message.  She couldn’t imagine how ‘stop moping, fuckface, or I’ll come kick your ass myself’ was the right thing to say to someone in Bucky’s condition.  As it turns out, after being coddled for god knows how long, the message was exactly what he needed to stop blaming himself for his injury, and to start blaming Pierce.

Who does Wanda have to blame?  Herself? Bruce? Fate? Lady luck?  It's as she said, this is all so fucked up.

Bucky sits in his seat, numbly eating two ballpark hot dogs he’s sure to regret later.  The batter swings and misses, and the crowd boos, but he’s barely paying attention. The ballpark flood lights are blinding.  There’s so much light pollution in the city, the sky is always a dark sepia at night. The only stars to be seen in LA are the celebrities.

Eventually, Bucky starts thinking about what Loki told him.  During the second inning, he touches Steve’s hand. “I have to tell you something.”

Steve turns away from the game, focusing all his attention on Bucky.  “What is it?”

Bucky spills.  He tells Steve about Loki’s first call, then his second.  He tells him that someone has it out for him, and has the money to get the information they want.  If not from Loki, than from someone else. Steve’s silent through it all, his brows furrowing deeper and deeper.  Eventually he turns away, looking out upon the field. “Thanks, Buck.”

“What are you going to do?”  He asks, just as the batter hits a home run.  The stadium fills with the roar of screaming fans, and Bucky doesn’t catch what Steve says.  He doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t think he’d like the answer.

The next day, the two of them visit Wanda in her hospital room.

Every corner of the pure white square she’s trapped in overflows with flowers and stuffed animals.  Bucky and Steve add their contributions to the pile. A gift for Wanda, or maybe an offering to Baal-Marqod.  Anything for her speedy recovery.

She looks exactly like he did when he was in the hospital.  Bags under her bloodshot eyes, dry lips, the works.

“What are your plans?”  Bucky asks gently, holding her limp hand, sitting in one of the two chairs by her bed.

She licks her lips, gaze a million miles away, even as she stares right at him.  “I’m going to Pasadena. My brother attends school there. Bruce recommended an orthopedic surgeon in the area.”

“That’s good,”  Steve says.

She turns her head away, looking out the window like she wants nothing more than to grow wings and fly away.  “Good, sure.”

Bucky takes that as their cue to leave.

“She's young, she'll recover,”  Steve says firmly, slipping a bill into the vending machine.  It clunks, and a bottle of iced tea rolls from the dispenser, followed by a coke.  He gives the tea to Bucky. “She's too talented for her career to be over.”

Cracking open the bottle, Bucky says,  “I don't think the universe takes talent into consideration when it decides to fuck things up.”

Steve sighs deeply.  “Fair point.”


	6. muse

## muse

The next morning, Bucky wakes up late with dark circles under his eyes.

He shaves, but ends up nicking his chin, swearing like his zayde when blood drips onto his white tee.  To make matters worse, he spills his coffee all over the countertop, and doesn’t have enough time to make another between cleaning up, and digging up another shirt to wear.

The concealer he swipes under his eyes isn't colour corrected, so when he glances in the mirror on the way out the door he still looks like a dead man walking.  Joy. He can't remember his dreams from last night, but he has a feeling they weren't good.

On the way to work he gets stuck in traffic, and passes the time watching his fellow commuters.  A businesswoman applies a flawless bake using only her rear-view mirror. A elderly woman puffs away on an e-cigarette, the interior of her car even smoggier than the highway.  A man screams into a cell phone as his kid watches a movie in the backseat. Los Angeles at its finest.

Pulling into the lot half an hour late for class, he grabs his bag and rushes into the studios like a loping jackal.  He’s hoping to slip into class unnoticed, but when he pushes open the doors, he finds the studio empty. Not even a chirping cricket.  There’s no need to double check the schedule. Class has been held in the main studio since before he joined the company.

“What the hell,”  he swears under his breath, bag sliding down his shoulder.  He glares at the piano, and empty barres.

“Sir?”  A voice says from behind him.  Bucky whirls around. A uniformed cop—of all people—pokes his head through the door.

“ _Oy vey_ ,”  Bucky mutters, striding over, halfway to fully panicked.  “Was there another accident?” He demands.

The cop’s brows furrow, thumbs hooked into his utility belt.  “Didn’t you hear the announcement? You’re supposed to be in the theatre.”

Cursing up a storm, Bucky dodges around the cop, and jogs down the hall.  Pushing through the west exit doors, he’s blinded by the sunlight poking through the clouds.  Shielding himself from the glare with his hand, he stumbles around parked cars in the lot, digging his access card out of his bag.  All sorts of terrible thoughts run through his mind. There’s only a few reasons a company of their size would interrupt a work day for assembly.  None of them good.

Slipping into the theatre, he rushes through the backstage corridors, shouldering open the doors to the theatre.  The entire company is gathered in the orchestra seats. He hurries down the aisle, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.  Finding an empty seat, he drops into it, catching his breath.

Fury stands behind a podium.  Tall and imposing. His eyes flick over to Bucky, narrowing, before moving on.  All the air floods back into his lungs, and his ears come back online.

“We’re holding out on hope for Erik, no matter what these _suits_ say.”  Fury says ‘suits’ like the word puts a bad taste in his mouth.

Bucky turns to the woman beside him.  She’s one of the violinists on staff, and her eyes are red and puffy.

He’s almost afraid to ask, but ask he does.  “What’s going on?”

With a quivering lip, she whispers,  “State troopers found Erik’s car off route 101, just outside Los Padres forest.”  She wipes a hand across her eyes. “He’s missing, but they’re saying he jumped.”

Holy shit.  Thrown for a loop, Bucky leans back in his seat.  Why would Erik hurt himself? He always seemed so happy.  Then again, happy people don’t just up and jump into the Pacific ocean.  Also, Los Padres? He said he was going to Big Sur with his dog. The two parks are at least a five hour drive from each other.

Fury’s still speaking, and Bucky focuses in on what he’s saying.  “If any of you can help with the timeline, speak with one of the feds.”  Fury gestures to the two people behind him, and Bucky finally registers them.  Suits. One of them more familiar than the other.

“It’s her,”  he breathes.

“What?”  The violinist says.

Bucky shakes his head.  “Nothing.”

It’s definitely her.  The woman in the drab suit from Sharon’s funeral.  She’s here, and her fashion sense has not improved in the slightest.  A taller, bigger man stands behind her, deferential. He’s got to be her partner, and it’s plain to see that he holds her in high regard.

Bucky stays behind while everyone gets up to leave.  He isn't sure if his information is relevant, but he won't know until he asks.  Steve catches his eye on the way out, raising his brows. Bucky gives him a reassuring nod.  Everything will be alright. Erik will turn out to be fine. Maybe a couple of idiot kids stole his car, took it for a five hour joyride, and he's trying to hitchhike his way back to LA.

When he’s the only one left in the orchestra seats, Bucky climbs up to the stage.  Fury has remained, along with a squirrelly man Bucky recognizes as the company's solicitor.

“You,”  Fury says skeptically, like he can’t believe Bucky could ever have anything important to say.  He's well aware that Fury only puts up with him because he’s Steve’s friend. That doesn’t make his ire sting any less.

“Me,”  Bucky says sarcastically.  He tries so hard, but he’ll never be good enough for Fury.  It’s enough to make him snappy.

Fury frowns, unimpressed.

The fed unfolds her arms, holding out her hand for Bucky to shake.  Her partner does the same. “You have information on Erik Selvig, Mr...?”

“Barnes.”

“Mr. Barnes,”  she says. “I am Special Agent Valkyrie, this is Special Agent Odinson.”  She gestures to her partner. The same dark glasses she wore to Sharon’s funeral are tucked in the breast pocket of her suit jacket.  “How did you know Mr. Selvig?”

Bucky sticks his hands into his hoodie pockets, shoulders bunched together.  “Erik is music staff, he plays during class and rehearsals. Sometimes at performances.”

“Purely a business relationship?”  She asks, pulling a pad from her breast pocket.  Not quick enough for Bucky to miss the silver glint of a hip flask.

Bucky bobs his head.  “Yes, of course.”

She clicks her pen, scribbling on the pad.  Bucky has the feeling she’s just doing it to intimidate him.  “And yet you are the only one in the entire company with information.”

“Mr. Barnes,”  the solicitor speaks up,  “You don’t have to reveal the nature of your relationship with Mr. Selvig—”

“It’s fine,”  Bucky interrupts, lifting a hand.  “It’s nothing that could hurt the company.  I’m willing to talk.” He pauses, considering.  “So long as you tell me something in return.”

She tilts her head.  “What do you want to know?  I cannot reveal details of an open case.”  Valkyrie adds curiously.

“How did you know Sharon Carter, ma’am?”  Bucky asks, undeterred. Her partner visibly straightens.

Her lip quirks ever so slightly, but then her face smooths to its previous blasé mask.  “I did not personally know Sharon Carter.”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest.  “Then why were you at her funeral?”

“You never told me you attended her funeral,”  her partner says, surprised.

She ignores Odinson’s obvious concern.  “It has to do with an open investigation.”

“Bullshit,”  Bucky says plainly, his mind making connections faster than he can blink.  “If it was official police business your partner would have known.”

She smiles mechanically, and it doesn’t reach her eyes.  “I’ve told you all I can. Now it’s your turn to return the deed.”

Bucky inhales sharply, realization striking like a foot to the gut.  “You don’t think it was an accident,” he whispers, but her face remains as blank as ever.  Her partner is not as subtle. His eyes widen, brows lifting all the way to his hairline. “So it’s true,”  Bucky shakes his head, this is all happening so fast. “You think someone killed Sharon.”

Her eyes narrow, and she clicks the pen a few times, the sound echoing on the stage.  “That is your opinion. Now, information. Mr. Selvig’s life depends on it.”

Bucky nods his head, licking his lips.  God, they think someone murdered Sharon.  Bucky rubs a hand over his jaw, wincing when he irritates the cut on his chin.  “We both like to hike, and Erik knew that. He mentioned that he was going to Big Sur over the weekend.  He visits the trails often.”

“Are you sure he said Big Sur, and not Los Padres?”  Odinson asks.

Bucky nods.  “I’m sure of it.  He never once talked about Los Padres.”

“Even though it’s closer to LA?”  Valkyrie says, watchful eyes never leaving his face as she scribbles.  “He might have decided Big Sur was too much of a hassle, and chose something easier.”

“Chose someplace easier to kill himself, you mean?”  Bucky says, lips thinning in displeasure.

“We’re not saying suicide is a certainty.  We’ll know for sure when his body turns up.”

“ _If_ his body turns up.  He’s still missing, not dead.”  Bucky adjust his bag on his shoulder with a sigh.  “Erik’s very detail oriented, he plans his trips months in advance.  Didn’t you people search his car, you should have found something; a map, a GPS, anything?  Where was his golden retriever, Bella? Did you find her?”

Abruptly, she stops writing.  She snaps the pad shut, looking strangely surprised.  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Barnes. Director Fury, if you would show us the way out, that’d be appreciated.”

“Follow me.”  Fury gestures the feds off the stage, but his eyes don't leave Bucky, they narrow considerably.

Bucky is tempted to give him the finger.  It’s been a really shitty day, and it isn't even close to over yet.  He doesn’t need to deal with Fury’s particular brand of dick.

Because the universe feel the need to kick him when he’s already down, Fury says, right within the hearing range of everyone still in the theatre,  “Next time you're late, let’s just hope other people’s lives aren’t dependant on what you have to say.”

Bucky waits until he’s gone to flip him the double bird.  He may not like Fury, but he isn’t an idiot.

***

“What happened after everyone left?”  Steve asks as they walk side by side down the hall to the costume department.  Today, they have a dress rehearsal scheduled for _Afternoon of a Faun_.  Since it’s a new work, they have to make sure Steve’s silicone ears won’t fall off mid performance.  Which means hair, makeup, and costumes. The works.

Bucky presses the button for the elevator.  “I gave them all I know.” He leans against the wall.  “Apparently I’m the only person Erik told about his weekend trip to Big Sur.”

“Big Sur?”  Steve asks just as the elevator dings.  “That’s so far from where they found his car.”

Bucky chews on his bottom lip.  He holds open the door, letting Steve onto the elevator before him.  “He always plays during your rehearsals. Did he seem off to you?”

Steve shakes his head, pressing the button for the basement.  “He was the same as always. Happy, always with a big smile on his face.”  Steve stares off into the distance, shoulders slumping. “But you know that doesn’t prove anything, right?  Depression doesn’t have to rear its ugly head to eat away at someone. People are good at hiding it.”

“Yeah,”  Bucky says, unconvinced.  It’s not that he doesn't get what Steve's saying.  It’s just that Erik was always so happy, it's difficult to believe he was suffering.

The lift opens to the basement floor.  Set pieces, and costumes are lined up all along the corridor walls.  Peggy waits between a rack of tutus, and a frayed dancing bear evidently undergoing intensive restoration.  She smiles when she sees them, but it barely touches her eyes.

“It’s been a shit week, hasn’t it?”  She says, waving at them to follow after her.

“Pegs,”  Steve whispers her name like a prayer, staring at her with a hangdog expression.  Bucky looks between the two of them, absolutely confused.

“What’s wrong?”  Bucky whispers, nudging him in the side.  Steve just shakes his head.

Peggy glances over her shoulder, lips pursing.  She turns back around, and starts marching them faster.  Normally, when Steve acts like a kicked dog in front of Peggy she asks what’s wrong.  He can’t believe she’s ignoring his puppy eyes. Bucky didn’t think that was humanly possible.  Even he’s not that strong, and he's had a lifetime to build up resistance.

A tangible weight hovers over everyone in the costume department.  There's no conversation to be heard, no laughter over the humming of sewing machines.  Everyone is bent over their work with single-minded purpose. Even Tony isn’t in the mood to be his obnoxious self.  He fetches their costumes without a single comment, then disappears into the depths of the department. Wanda’s horrible injury, and now Erik’s disappearance have settled a mood of doom and gloom over the entire company.

Once in the dressing room, Bucky pulls the sleeveless dress over his head, clipping on the belt.  He gathers his hair so it falls down his back, pinning the gold wreath by his temples. Looking in the mirror, he untucks a curl of hair from behind his ear so it frames his face.  He already has some ideas about makeup, but he’ll run them past Peggy later. Pushing aside the curtain, he nervously smooths down the front of the dress, spreading his arms wide for Peggy and Steve.  “How do I look?”

Steve stares at him without blinking, lips parted, looking like someone clocked him upside the head.  He doesn’t need to say a thing to convey just what he thinks of the costume.

Just like that, all of Bucky’s insecurities disappear.  He puffs his chest out, proud.

Peggy hums, and his attention shifts to her.  She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Like an androgynous nymph,”  she says with a nod.

He smiles, spinning around, silk fluttering at his ankles like a spring breeze.  He loves it, he really does. “That’s what we were going for, wasn’t it?”

Steve clears his throat.  “My turn.” He grabs the garment bag holding his costume.  Bucky steps to the side, but Steve stops right in front of him.  He brushes the apple of Bucky’s cheek with his fingertips. “The plum blush, I think,”  he murmurs. His hand falls, and the curtain shuts with a swift woosh.

Peggy clears her throat, and Bucky hurries to take the vacated seat.  “I think you look lovely.”

“Thanks,”  He says, rubbing the silk between his thumb and forefinger.  Bucky touches the place where he still feels Steve’s fingers, heat rising to his skin.

“I think androgyny suits you well.”  She smiles kindly.

“Is that why you decided to cast me?”  Bucky asks, and immediately wants to slap his hands over his mouth.  He should be grateful Peggy thought his dancing was good enough to originate her nymph choreography.  It has nothing to do with his _looks_.

“Why do you think I cast you?”  Peggy asks curiously, crossing one leg over the other, hands clasped on her knees.

Bucky shrugs.  “For the novelty homoeroticism?”

Peggy throws her head back, laughing.  “You must not have a great opinion of me.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head faster than a woodpecker.  “No, no, you’re getting it all wrong. You’re the greatest choreographer of our time, in my opinion.”

Peggy smiles, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes crinkling.  “You really think so? That’s sweet of you.”

“I’m not trying to be sweet, it’s the truth.”  Bucky rubs his hands nervously.

Talking to Peggy makes him feel like he’s a teenager again, confessing his feelings to an unattainable crush.  Peggy’s this great, world-renowned figure, and he’s just a guy whose greatest accomplishment was surviving Alexander Pierce.

“I’ve never had the privilege of dancing such innovative works, as I have with you,”  he eventually says with complete sincerity.

Peggy’s brows come together.  “I don’t understand, you worked with some of the greatest choreographers in New York.  Why is my work special?”

Bucky doesn’t even need to think about his answer.  “Good choreography can’t make up for a terrible plot.”

Her brows climb all the way up her forehead.  “Explain?”

Bucky lets out a little breath.  He didn’t expect Peggy to be interested in his opinion.  Few people are. Well, except for Steve, but he’s always been different.

Years ago, when Bucky had gushed for two hours straight over the Wakandan Royal Company incorporating traditional dance into their programming, Steve just laid in his sleeping bag, listening attentively.  They had been in the Grand Canyon on one of their off-seasonal camping trips, and instead of tuning him out, Steve asked _questions_.  He could have fallen asleep, readying himself for the next day’s hike.  Instead, he paid attention to every word that came out of Bucky’s mouth.

Sometimes Bucky forgets just how much he loves Steve, but then he does something as simple as pay attention when no one else will, and boom.  Bucky remembers.

“Okay, so you know Liam Scarlett's _Sweet Violets_?”  Bucky dives right in.  “It's a new work, and it's beautifully choreographed, but in the end it's still about women suffering brutally at men's hands.”

“It was inspired by Jack the Ripper,”  Peggy offers, her body tilted towards him, interested in the conversation.

“Yes, but why?  Why sexualize the murder of a sex worker by her client?  There was no need for that. So many contemporary ballets fall into this trope.  Even now. Why are women so often cast as helpless victims? Why are they never the masters of their own fates?”  Bucky loves this art, but he’d be hard pressed to forget its systemic problems.

“It’s tradition, and we both know ballet is steeped in tradition.”  Peggy counts off on her fingers. “ _Swan Lake, Giselle_ , _La Sylphide, La Bayadère—_ women lose their lives as a result of the actions of men, and are called martyrs because they do so willingly.”

Bucky nods.  “Balanchine himself said women are supposed to dominate this industry.”

“Even Balanchine was not immune to sexism,”  Peggy points out.

Bucky blinks.  “Really?”

George Balanchine popularized ballet in America.  He made it what it is today. There’s a reason he’s known as the father of American ballet.  He was a revolutionary for his time, and thought nothing of it. He cast the first African-American principal dancer in the NYC ballet, and in the 50s, made _Agon_ for him and a white ballerina.  It was the first interracial pas de deux in a major company.  The racists lost their collective shits when it toured in the south, but Balanchine still refused to budge on his vision, fuck segregation.

“Everyone forgets that he slept with the women who danced under him,”  Peggy continues. “And I know what you’re going to say. To each their own, consenting adults, and all that.  God knows Ste—”

“Actually no, I think that’s a big problem,”  Bucky interrupts. He hasn’t seen, or heard of anything like that in this company, probably because Fury wouldn't tolerate it.  But New York? New York was rife with it.

Dancers only believe they can sleep their way to a promotion when their advances are encouraged.  Pierce was never interested in cracking down on that sort of shit, and the creative director gave even fewer fucks.  Bucky always had too much pride, but even he wasn’t immune to the pressure.

When he was still dancing in the corps, Bucky flirted and batted his lashes at the ballet mistress.  Everyone was doing it, so he figured, why the hell not? It got to the point where she slipped him her home address, and told him to come over for a private _coaching_ lesson.  He came so close to swallowing his pride, and just going, but at the last moment he balked.  He never showed, and her attentions moved on.

His fellow dancers used to call him frigid, but better to be frigid than to have the weight of that on his conscience.  Bucky earned his position through hard, back-breaking work, but he never blamed the other dancers for doing all they could to get forward.  When it’s normalized, what’s the point in pretending to be the better person for not succumbing? He always blamed the institution for refusing to protect its dancers.

Tapping a finger against his knee, he clenches his jaw.  “Why does the relationship between a creator and their muse have to be sexualized?  Béjart did not have to sleep with Duška Sifnios in order to make _Bolero_ for her.  If there is a power imbalance, it needs to be addressed.  Otherwise isn’t it just exploitative?”

Peggy nods.  Her eyes flicker over to the dressing room curtain, before returning to Bucky.  “In other industries, romance between a superior and subordinate is anything but proper.  In ballet it is idealized. Encouraged even.”

“Ballet is plagued by tropes that need to disappear, and that’s just one of them.  You started that, Peggy,” Bucky says warmly. The corners of her mouth lift, but for some reason she doesn’t meet his eye.  She looks down at her lap, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. Bucky’s smile doesn’t waver. He kicks out his legs, relaxing back on his stool.  “There are no waifs in _Fontana_ .   _Midsummer_ has the first on stage kiss between two men, not to mention a woman who slays her oppressor instead of marrying him.   _Afternoon of a Faun_ will be just as brilliant, if not more.”

She chuckles lightly, grey-streaked curls falling in front of her face.  “Have you ever considered venturing into choreography?”

“Why would I make ballets?”  Bucky shakes his head, dismissing the idea right off the bat.  “I want to dance them.”

Peggy glances up, genuinely surprised.  “Who says you have to do one or the other?”

“Uh, everyone,”  Bucky says blankly, like it’s obvious, because it is.  Dancers only venture into choreography if they retire, or if an injury prevents them from performing.   “I only received basic choreology training. Benesh notation is beyond me, all the symbols and math?” He shakes his head.  “No thank you.”

Out of nowhere, Peggy snorts.  “And here I thought you were non-conforming, Barnes.”

“Don’t you think ballet has enough white, male choreographers?”  Bucky says wryly.

“Of course it does.”  She emphasises with a bob of her head.  “But you know what else we need? Choreographers who are aware of their privilege, and are open to doing something about it.  Like originating dancers of colour in lead roles, or creating queer characters. I’d take five of you, over a genius anyday.”

Stumped, Bucky blinks at her a few times.  “That has to be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Well—”

The curtain sweeps aside, and Peggy cuts off whatever she was going to say as Steve steps out of the dressing room.  Bucky turns away from her and nearly chokes on his tongue at the sight of Steve. No wonder Peggy stopped talking.

Steve rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, but he has no reason to feel embarrassed.  He looks… good. Damn good, if Bucky wants to be poetic. His chest is bare to the world, and his spotted leggings cling like a second skin to his long legs.  A belt of fruits and flowers drape over his tiny hips, a bunch of golden grapes hanging in front of his business. If Tony was going for subtle, that was not the way to do it.

Everything looks so damn good.  Except, it seems Steve had some trouble with his headdress.  It sits a bit awkwardly on his head, the horns tilted too far to the right.

Peggy’s the first to move.  She slips off her stool, and goes up to Steve.  Standing on her tiptoes, she fixes the piece properly.

“Pegs,”  Steve murmurs as she pulls back.

Peggy leans back in, but Bucky’s not that far away.  He can still hear everything she says.

“After rehearsal could you stay for a few moments longer?  I’d like to continue our conversation from the other day.”

Steve sighs in plain and simple resignation, but he nods anyway.  “Yeah, Peggy, I will.”

“Oh, and Barnes?”  She says. Bucky glances over, finding her with her arms crossed in front of her chest.  “I knew shit all about Benesh notation when I first started. That’s the choreologist’s job.  Let me know if you have any ideas, and I’ll get you an appointment with Maria. All you have to do is dance.  She’ll take care of the rest.”

Bucky dips his head, grateful that she’s willing to do this for him.  He’s probably never going to take her up on the offer, but it’s the thought that counts.

art by [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/182925693188/my-first-illustration-for-the-fic-diminuendo-by)


	7. a jones fracture of the fifth metatarsal

## a jones fracture of the fifth metatarsal

Bucky checks his ticket stub one more time as he pads down the red carpeted aisle.  Natasha bought him a seat in the centre of the orchestra. It’s high enough to put him right on eye level with the dancers, and arguably the best seat in the house.  He shudders to think of how much it must have cost her. He can only afford seats in the balconies.

He finds his row, and has to excuse himself past one couple before he reaches his seat.  Turning the ringer off his phone, he lowers the brightness all the way down for good measure.  Tucking it back in his jacket, he rubs his fingers on the plush armrests, smiling to himself.

If only he could show his younger self just how far he’s come.  That little kid—transfixed, as he rewatched a  _ Swan Lake _ tape for the tenth time in a row—would have stars in his eyes in the face of all this grandeur.  In many ways, Bucky’s still that kid. The industry stole a lot of the hope in him, but wonder is nigh on impossible to kill.

An older woman in a tweed suit sits beside him, a dramatic set of pearls draped around her neck.  She smells very strongly of roses. Bucky’s bubbe was a big fan of Yardley’s  _ English Rose _ , but this woman seems the type who only wears Channel.  Elegant sophistication comes to mind.

Her eyes land on him, widening in unexpected recognition.

“Mr. Barnes,”  she says in a thick English accent,  “What a delightful surprise.”

“Uh, hi?”  He cringes internally when his voice cracks.

She smiles, brushing aside his awkwardness.  “I saw your  _ Mayerling  _ yesterday, but here you are, watching instead of dancing.”

If a person goes to see the same ballet twice in a row it usually means they’re a fan.  Or they’re rich. Or both. He knows all the regulars, and he hasn’t seen her before. Despite all that, something about her seems familiar.

He shrugs.  “My best friend is on stage tonight,”  Bucky says.

“Oh?”  She says.  “Which one is he?”

“Steve Rogers, he’s playing Prince Rudolf.”

“Ah, the  _ danseur noble _ .”  She taps a manicured finger against her chin.  “He has a lovely form.”

“He does,”  Bucky agrees enthusiastically.  At the grin on her face, he trails off, blushing.  “You mean his form, not his  _ form.   _ Right.”

She chuckles.  “Well, that’s not bad either.”

“Please excuse me while I jump off a cliff, ma’am,”  Bucky says, covering his face, absolutely mortified at this eighty-something woman poking fun at him.

“Amanda,”  she says, holding out her hand with a wide smile.  “My daughter goes by ma’am.”

Bucky studies her from a gap in between his fingers.  Her lips are smeared with red lipstick, and her eyes are a warm chocolate brown…  just like her daughter. He lowers his hands, and shakes hers in awe. Her grip is surprisingly strong.

“You’re Peggy’s mother.”

“I am.”

“You’re Amanda Carter,”  he says, mouth falling open.  “The Amanda Carter.”

“You’ll catch flies like that, Barnes,”  a familiar voice says, and he looks up to Peggy’s amused face.  She takes a seat beside her mother.  _ Her mother _ .  Who is Dame Amanda Carter.  Who danced twenty years with the Royal Ballet, and who was appointed  _ prima ballerina assoluta _ by the Queen of England herself.  Bucky’s not normally one to get star struck.  He lives in Los Angeles for god’s sake. He’s just as likely to run into a celebrity while grocery shopping as he would walking down the strip.  Except, she isn't any old celebrity. She’s Amanda Carter. And he might as well have told her he likes the shape of his best friend’s behind.

Mortified, Bucky slumps in his seat.  Amanda just pats him on the back of the hand.

The lights dim, and the curtains rise.  The conductor taps his baton, then the orchestra plays.  A coffin is slowly lowered as a priest stands guard, and the ballet begins.

_ Mayerling _ is a morbid story.  Inspired by the murder-suicide of the Crown Prince of Austria, and his mistress at the Mayerling hunting lodge in 1889, it tells a tale of a man obsessed with death.  It’s sensual, terrifying at times, depressingly sad at others.  _ Mayerling  _ does not rely on mimes to convey story.  Acting plays a major part, just like  _ Swan Lake _ .  If a dancer cannot act, they cannot dance  _ Mayerling _ .

Steve’s a good actor.  He’s nothing like the suicidal, sex-obsessed Prince Rudolf, but damn if he isn’t convincing.  He could star in movies if he really wanted to. Bucky knows for a fact that he’s maintained his SAG membership all these years.

Steve was a guest on a procedural a few years ago, playing the boyfriend of a murdered ballerina.  Bucky had DVRed the episode when he was still living in New York. Of course his character ended up doing the deed—it was a very predictable show—but for a moment when Steve cried his eyes out in an interrogation room, Bucky wanted nothing more than to reach through the screen, and comfort him.

He’s a jack of all trades, and a master of them too.  It’s enough to make a guy jealous.

Bucky’s heart beats double time when Steve kisses Natasha during the seductive bedroom pas de deux.  He bends her over backwards, the thick moustache they’ve glued on his face hiding most of the action, but it’s still spicy enough for a few audience members to sigh dreamily.  Especially when he caresses her breastbone after.

His eyes must be playing tricks on him, because for one second after Steve pulls away, he looks out into the audience, and it’s almost like his gaze lands right on Bucky.  Before he knows it, the curtains close on the second act. He wipes his sweaty hands on his pants, and Amanda turns to him, smiling widely.

“Your friend is talented.”

“Steve is the best the company has to offer,”  Peggy says, pride in her voice. “He and Natasha are our stars.”

“Mr. Barnes here is also a solid dancer,”  Amanda says, surprising him. “Where did you study, dear?”

“New York,”  he says, taken aback at her interest.

“Hmm, I can only imagine you learned under Alexander Pierce.  I recognize some of him in you. It’s your reckless footwork.”  Concern clear in her tone, she leans closer. “You might consider unlearning some of what he has taught you.  His dancers do not have sustainable careers.”

Bucky frowns at his lap, picking at a stray thread on his pants.  He was so sure he left Pierce behind in New York. It’s frustrating that nearly a decade of his instruction is so difficult to quit.

After the show, Bucky waits backstage, two slightly wilted pink roses in hand.  He’d surreptitiously plucked them out of an arrangement in the lobby while no one was looking.  Amanda has disappeared into one of the private balconies, while Peggy converses nearby with a stagehand.

Natasha is the first to emerge from the showers, hair dripping wet on her shoulders.  She’s changed out of her costume into a pair of comfy boots and sweats. Spotting him, she plucks one of the roses out of his hand.  It’s nothing compared to the massive bouquet handed to her at curtain fall, but she seems to appreciate it regardless.

“You were great,”  Bucky says as he she tucks the rose in the front pocket of her bag.  It peeks out, a splash of colour amid all the black.

She shrugs.  “My shoes were too hard, I sounded like a stomping elephant in the first act.”

“No one notices that stuff but the most die-hard fans.”

“And me,”  she says with a displeased twist of her lips.

“Because you’re a perfectionist,”  Bucky reminds her.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder.  “Perfection is underrated, James.”

Steve appears then, bag slung over his shoulder, smelling fresh and clean, looking completely worn out.  Bucky tucks the second rose into his hoodie pocket, and Steve gives him a tired smile.

“Movie night at mine?”  Bucky offers.

“Please tell me you have food,”  Steve sighs, “I could eat a horse, and then his brother.”

“Buddy, lemme tell you, I have the best frozen dinners money can buy,”  Bucky says, and Steve groans into his hands. “I also have cob salad.”

“Yum,”  Natasha says.  “You’re driving,”  she calls over her shoulder, disappearing down the stairs to the parking lot exit.

“I feel so appreciated,”  Bucky says sarcastically.

“I love you too, Bucky,”  Steve says, deadpan, akin to a starved zombie.  Bucky better get some food into him before he starts gnawing his hoodie’s strings.  “Now feed me.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, yeah.” All he needs is a minivan, then he’ll be a regular ole suburban mom.   Glancing over at Peggy, she smiles at them. “I’d ask Peggy if she wants to join us, but I doubt she’d want to hang out with a couple of rapscallions like us.”

“Don’t,”  Steve says, simply and quietly.  Bucky looks at him curiously. “Please, don’t.”

“Steve?”

Steve shakes his head.  “I’ll wait for you by the car.”  Without a word of explanation, he follows after Natasha.  Peggy watches Steve leave, her arms crossed over her chest, mouth turned down in a frown.

At home, Jupiter hops onto Steve’s shoulder, purring in delight.  She licks the top of his head, and his hair stands in a cowlick, her favouritism apparent.  Steve feeds her a morsel of his dinner.

Natasha snorts at something said by one of the Russian mob bosses on the TV.  Bucky does not appreciate her hogging all the cob salad. After all, she’s borrowing his ice bucket out of the kindness of his own heart. 

“His accent is terrible,”  she says, throwing a corn kernel at the TV.  Jupiter dives after it, and gobbles it up, acting like Bucky doesn’t feed her.  Such an ungrateful cat.

“Hey,”  Bucky says, poking Natasha on the thigh,  “Don’t make a mess in my apartment.”

“How wretched,”  Natasha says, shaking her head.  “You should have invited Peggy, this is such a sausage fest.  You could use her artistic sensibilities. Look at this.” She gestures around Bucky’s admittedly barebones living room,  “He doesn’t even have art on the walls.”

“I don’t have time to decorate when I’m at work ten hours a day.”  Bucky tucks his feet under his butt. “Why didn’t I invite Peggy again?”

“I asked you not to,”  Steve says, hiding his face by taking a long drink from his water.  Is that a flush on his cheeks?

Bucky frowns.  “I don’t understand.  You like her.”

Natasha laughs with her whole body, ice clinking in her bucket.  “The problem is he likes her too much.”

“Shut up, Nat,”  Steve grumbles under his breath.

“Again, what?”  Bucky asks, looking between the two of them in confusion.

“They were fucking, and now they aren’t.  Poor Steve feels miffed.”

“What?!”  Bucky exclaims, muting the TV.  He leans around Natasha, staring at Steve in disbelief.  “When, why,  _ how _ ?”

“I don’t feel miffed,”  Steve mumbles, “The ending was mutual.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were dating Peggy Carter?”  Bucky demands, betrayed. 

“We weren’t dating, it was casual.”

“She’s old enough to be your mother,”  Bucky mutters, crossing his arms. A weird feeling starts up in his chest, and he hunches over himself.   _ What the fuck, what the actual fuck? _

Steve frowns at him.  “Don’t be rude, Bucky, she’s only fifty.”

“ _ Only _ fifty?  You knew her when you were a kid!”  Bucky exclaims. He’s so fucking pissed off, he’s practically seeing red.

Peggy actually looked him in the eye and said what she said, all the while she was screwing Steve like he was a secret.  She pretended to be so worried about power dynamics, and for what? Hypocrisy?

Steve huffs, dismissive.  “We only met after I was hired by the company.  I was nineteen, hardly a kid. Besides, it wasn’t anything back then.  She was still married. She wouldn’t have looked at me twice.”

“But you wanted it to be something, didn’t you?”  Natasha says, roaring with laughter when Steve purses his lips and looks away.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me, but you told Natasha.”  Bucky’s pretty damn irked that he didn’t think to share the fact that he was sleeping with his boss.  At the very least it deserves a mention. A casual, ‘oh hey, Bucky, I’m doing something that could damage my career and future prospects, please talk me out of it,’ would have been nice.

“To be fair,”  Natasha says, “He didn’t tell me a thing, I walked in on them in a compromising position.”

Steve turns redder than a tomato.  Bucky stares at him in utter disbelief.  This is what being clocked upside the head must feel like.  So many ugly thoughts run rampant through his mind. The ugliest of them all is the simple fact that Steve wouldn’t have hidden the affair from him if it wasn't something that needed to be hidden.

“It’s over now, there’s nothing more to say.”  Steve hunches in on himself, and Bucky really wants to punch something.

He’s always felt responsible for Steve, always felt the need to intervene when things got bad.  All the way from when Steve was bullied as a kid, to when some fucker beat the shit out of him and called it love.  Right now he wants nothing more than to get in Peggy’s face. How  _ dare _ she put Steve in this position.

“I’m an adult, and it was completely consensual.  Don’t hold this against her, Buck,” Steve pleads quietly, like he can read his mind.  He’s not meeting his eye, but he radiates anxiety. As if Bucky’s admiration for Peggy is what really matters in this situation.

“I don’t think I can,”  he admits. It’s difficult not to reach the worst conclusions.  Peggy holds casting power in the company, and Steve works under her.  It’s a power imbalance that could easily end in a lawsuit if anyone found out.  For all he knows, she could have been giving him roles in exchange for sex.

He chews on the inside of his cheek.  If anyone other than Natasha found out, Steve could have lost his damn job.  There’s a lot of stuff the board can brush under the rug to further their own interests, but sexual misconduct is not one of those things.  Not in this day and age. And not in this town.

“Bucky, please,”  Steve begs.

“James,”  Natasha says, all traces of joviality gone from her tone.  “Trust me when I say Peggy is not like that. Steve is talented, and she saw that in him early on.  The sleeping together came much later.”

“I…”  Bucky trails off.  “I can’t promise anything.”

“It only started a couple of months ago.  I flirted with her. It went from there, but it never affected our professional relationship.  Never. I swear to you,” Steve pleads. He reaches out, taking Bucky’s hand, exuding sincerity.  “She ended it because she felt it was wrong, please. Don’t hold this against her.”

Bucky pulls his hand from Steve’s.  “Why do you care so much about my opinion of her?”

Steve smiles wetly, tears gathering in his eyes.  “Because I know you, and I don’t want you to lose another role model.   _ Bucky _ .”  His voice cracks.  “Bucky, she’s not Pierce.”

Bucky swipes the back of his hand over his eyes.  Steeling his jaw, he looks away. Steve just wants to protect him, as much as he wants to protect Steve.  He should have known.

Objectively, Bucky can’t even blame Peggy for breaking all the rules for Steve.  He has the ass of a Greek god, and pecs that belong on a superhero. He’s the company’s dreamboat on social media, and crazy popular with all demographics.  He’s an openly queer dancer in a largely homophobic industry. He volunteers his time to charities when he’s off season. He models, and has several big name sponsorships.  Not to mention he has nearly a million followers on Instagram. It’s no wonder Peggy thought he was a catch, and all that is only the surface. Steve has depths like the goddamn Atlantic Ocean.

Still, doubts remain.  He still can’t believe Steve never told him.

“Fine,”  Bucky says reluctantly.  “Whatever. I trust your judgement.”

Before Steve can say anything, a knock sounds from the front door.  Bucky freezes. He does not get unannounced visitors, and his family isn’t due to visit until the Veterans Day long weekend.  Steve and Natasha are the only people from the company he’s ever invited over.

The knocking sounds again, more insistent.

“Are you expecting someone?”  Natasha asks.

Bucky shakes his head.

She hums, then pulls a fucking  _ stiletto knife  _ from her purse.  “Just in case.”

Bucky’s afraid to ask, and he doesn’t take the knife.  When he opens the door to none other than Alexander Pierce, he wishes he did.  Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

A thin, long scar runs down the length of his left calf where Pierce hit him so hard with a switch the skin tore like paper.  He was only sixteen at the time.

Bucky moves to slam the door in his face, but Pierce holds out his leg, blocking him.

“Jamie,”  he says, eyes narrowing even as he smiles.  A snake through and through. “You look well.”

“What are you doing in LA?”  Bucky demands. He refuses to step back even as Pierce leans into his space, afraid that would give him permission to enter.  “Don’t you have a season to run in New York?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty, little head,”  Pierce says, “I’m only in town for tonight.”

Bucky freezes, his blood running cold.  He’s lying, and he's not even subtle about it.  There’s no way he would fly all the way to LA just for Bucky.

“We have an offer for you, Jamie, but the number you left us appears to have been disconnected.”

“I wonder why,”  Bucky says through gritted teeth.  Pierce is no errand boy, he’s the rehearsal director when he’s not too busy being a ballet master.  His company needs him in New York. Besides, they have Bucky’s address; they could have just sent their ‘offer’ by courier.  Yet here Pierce is, dirtying up his doorstep.

“Come back to us, you're underutilized with Fury.  He doesn't treat you the way you should be treated.  We can buy out your contract if need be.”

“Alexander Pierce,”  Natasha sneers, wrapping a hand around Bucky’s bicep, pulling him away from the door.  Backing up, he hits Steve's chest. Strong hands come up, holding him steady. Bucky grabs ahold of one, and doesn’t let go.

“Romanova,”  Pierce says with a cruel twist of his lips.

“Poaching our dancers, that's a new low, even for you.”  She smiles, but it isn’t remotely friendly. It wouldn’t look out of place on a shark.  Bucky doesn't believe half the rumours that go around about her, but maybe some things aren't that far from the truth.

“Ah, but you would know something about that.”  Pierce’s expression hardens into granite. “Didn't you abandon both your company, and country on opening night?”

“No.  I danced opening night.  I left after one of the patrons thought it his right to force himself on me because he assumed I was cast on his merit, not my own.”  She smiles sharply. “I imagine he still tells everyone that the scar on his throat was from a tangle with a Siberian tiger.”

Bucky grabs hold of the bottom of Natasha’s sweater.

Pierce doesn't even look unsettled.  “Yes, well.” He reaches into his satchel, pulling out a sealed letter.  “Here is our offer, Jamie. A return to your position as principal, and a ten percent increase in your last salary with us.  Among other benefits.” He hands the letter to Bucky, and numbly, he takes it.

“I’m not going back to you,”  he says.

Pierce smiles a coyote’s smile, eyes flickering over his shoulder.  “We’ll see.”

Bucky watches Pierce leave from his window, making sure he has actually driven away, and that he isn’t still hanging around like the creep his is.  The moment he’s sure Pierce is gone, Bucky walks into his kitchen, and tosses the letter in the sink. He’s tempted to set it on fire right away, but that can wait for the morning.  Instead, he grabs a bottle of vodka from the cabinet. Usually he only drinks when his muscles are so sore he cannot sleep, but Pierce is a good enough reason to risk a hangover in the morning.

Unscrewing the top, he takes a long swing from it.

“Are you alright?”  Steve asks with obvious concern.  Bucky doesn’t look his way, and the vodka burns like hellfire on the way down.

Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  “When will that prick just croak already?” He mutters.

Natasha sighs, reaching over the island.  “If you’re going to drink, do it properly.”  She grabs the bottle and takes an even longer swing.  “If you took my knife, you wouldn’t have to worry about things like that.”

Bucky lifts a brow.  “I’d rather not waste my young years locked up in prison.  No matter that it would be worth it.”

“Jesus, Buck,”  Steve sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face,  “I would’ve just punched him for you.”

“A punch is too kind a treatment for Alexander fucking Pierce,”  Bucky says.

“Even if I bloodied his nose?”

“Maybe if you kicked him in the balls.”

“I’ll remember that next time,”  Steve says wryly.

“Talking about all this bodily harm gets me so hot,”  Natasha deadpans, walking around the island. The heat from her body is a comforting warmth all along his side.  “Reminds me of the motherland.”

Bucky laughs a horrible laugh that quickly turns into a sob.  He rubs his palms over his face, chasing away tears. He should not be crying over Alexander Pierce.  He’s not worth it, and yet, Bucky can’t help but imagine what his life would be like if he’d rejected Pierce’s offer.  His first offer, that is, when Bucky had just graduated from the academy. What if he went with Steve and his ma to California, instead of trying to make his way in the New York ballet scene?

Bucky chose the easy way out.  A direct recruitment out of the academy, and all of a sudden he was sixteen years old and under Pierce’s thumb.  He wanted so much to succeed, and he did, at least for a little while. It was a bitter fruit; all that Pierce offered him.  Fame, position, money, everything he could imagine. All Pierce demanded in return was Bucky’s complete dedication to the art, over his well-being.

When Pierce cast him in  _ Giselle, _ it was supposed to be the highlight of his career.

In the second act his character, Albrecht, nearly dances himself to death.  Pierce convinced Bucky that the way dancers usually catch themselves when they fall was unrealistic.  He said Bucky had to throw himself to the ground to make the audience believe Albrecht’s agony. Bucky believed him, and paid a dear price for it.  A displaced fracture in his left foot put him out for an entire season. Even now he can't dance the way he used to. He will never forgive Pierce for what that did to his career.

When Natasha gives the bottle back, he licks away a drop clinging to the lip.  It tastes like cob salad, with just a hint of cigarettes. He takes another good, long drink.

“I thought you quit smoking?”  Bucky asks, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Urg,”  Natasha grunts.  “Don’t you start with that, you sound like Nick.”

“Cigarettes will kill you.”

“Then it will be the noblest of deaths.”

Steve clears his throat, and Bucky’s couch creaks as he gets up.  “Are you two going to hog the bottle all night long?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, handing it over.  “Careful Steve, you’re a lightweight.”

“Am not,”  Steve protests,  “I just prefer beer.”  He takes a sip anyway. “Jesus, what is this, rubbing alcohol?”

Bucky snatches the bottle back.  “The best money can buy.”

Half an hour later, and all that remains in the bottle is fumes.  Natasha lies on her back, staring up at his kitchen ceiling. Bucky has a hand wrapped around her ankle, rubbing his thumb against the bristly hairs she missed while shaving.

“Why don’t you talk about your life in Russia?”  Steve asks, words slurring. Out of the three of them, he’s the drunkest.  Bucky hands over a glass of water, making sure Steve gulps down all of it.

Natasha looks pensive, her hands folded over her belly like she's the Sleeping Beauty.

“Was it because of what Pierce said?”  Steve continues, blinking slowly.

“Somewhat,”  she says, lip twisting wryly.  “It wasn’t always like that. It was cutthroat, yes.  You could never trust the girls not to stab you in the back, given the chance.  But it was good. The culture of ballet—the mythology—was everything. Ballet to Russia is not what it is to America.  Here it is something for the rich, for the most privileged. In Russia, ballet is for everyone. It is so deeply ingrained.  I miss that about it.” She sighs heavily. “I was not rich, growing up, but I had good feet and the right people noticed. My parents did not pay a single ruble to send me to the academy.”

“My parents nearly bankrupted themselves,”  Bucky says.

“My ma worked three jobs,”  Steve adds.

Natasha smiles.  “Look at us. We bled, we cried, and we beat out all those rich kids to get where we are.  The three of us, dancing for Peggy Carter.”

Steve smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.  He picks at the fuzz on his sweatpants. Bucky reaches over and takes his hand.  “Do you love her, Stevie? Peggy?”

“I do, in some ways.  I did, in others.” Steve admits, squeezing Bucky’s hand before letting go.  He wraps his arms around his legs, curling in on himself.

“What changed?”  Bucky asks gently.

Steve shrugs.  “It’s not about what’s changed.  It’s what’s always been there, I never had the guts to admit it.”

“Admit to what?”

Steve’s eyes dart to him, then away.  “Peggy always reminded me of someone. It was unfair, the expectations I put on her to love me the way I wanted to be loved by that person.  I was never bothered by our age difference, but it never left her alone.”

Bucky's brows climb up his forehead, surprised.  Steve’s saying that he is in love with someone.

His chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice, and he has no idea why.  He should be happy. Steve's relationships last long, and they burn bright. He’s an intense man, and he puts all his focus into the person he’s with.  When Steve falls in love, he does so with every inch of his being. Which was why it took so long—and so much convincing on Bucky's part—for Steve to kick Rumlow to the curb.

Bucky, on the other hand, doesn’t date.  He hasn’t wanted to since he was in his early twenties.  Dating takes too much time and energy away from his goals.  He gets by with his right hand, and offseasonal one night stands.  He has no idea how to be in a relationship.

“Oh,”  Bucky croaks, then clears his throat.  He tears his gaze away from Steve, to Natasha.  She’s looking between him and Steve, a furrow creasing her brow.

“We should get some sleep,”  she says, rolling on her side.  She’s so graceful when she dances.  Drunk, she resembles a beached whale.  Then again, Bucky shouldn’t be one to talk.  He nearly whacks his head on the edge of the countertop as he gets up.  “You two have the recorded rehearsal tomorrow.” She stretches her arms over her head, groaning as her back clicks.  “I call the couch.”

“Take the bed,”  Bucky offers, opening the cabinet, putting the empty bottle with the recycling.

“No thank you, I’d actually like to get some sleep without either of you snoring.”  She pads over to the couch, flopping down onto it, one leg hanging off. A few minutes later, and a faint snore sounds.  Both Bucky and Steve look at each other.

“You know the way,”  Bucky whispers, nodding to his bedroom,  “I’ll take care of this mess.”

“You don’t need help?”  Bucky shakes his head. “Okay.”

Bucky sets about cleaning up.  He leaves the ice buckets, deciding future Bucky can deal with that tomorrow.  He throws the uneaten food in the bin, loads the dishwasher, and quickly jots down what he managed to eat tonight.  He’s short three hundred calories—despite the vodka—but decides to fuck it and just have a big breakfast.

Sagging against the counter, he supports himself on braced elbows.  Natasha snores away, a mess of red hair peeking from the top of the afghan.  He looks towards the bedroom. A triangle of light spills onto the carpeting down the hall.  Steve’s left the door open in invitation. For him. He takes a deep breath, and turns off the kitchen light.

“Hey,”  he says to Steve, passing by him on the way to the ensuite.  Steve sits up in bed, glasses balanced on his nose. Bucky studies him in the mirror as he brushes his teeth.  He’s changed into one of Bucky’s shirts, hair damp at the edges where he washed his face. Steve scratches his nose, scrolling through his phone.  In the dim lighting the crooked bridge of it is plain to see.

Bucky remembers how he broke it like it happened yesterday.  Steve was ten years old, and already a scrappy little bastard.  In many ways he still is.

They had taken a shortcut through an alley, and walked in on a prep-school boy bullying a kid from their neighbourhood.  The kid was named Timothy, but everyone called him Dum Dum for some godforsaken reason. The bully thought Dum Dum's weight was real funny.  Steve, of course, didn't find it quite so amusing. He told Bucky to stay out of it, and five minutes later emerged from the scrap with a profusely bleeding nose, acting like had he won the damn thing.  The bully freaked because Steve had gotten blood all over his uniform, and the little kvetch ran away, complaining that his ma was going to kill him. All the while Steve smiled on in victory, blood still gushing out of his nose.

Steve’s like a rabid cat when he fights.  He never knows when to give up, nine lives, and all.

When he's done in the bathroom, Bucky goes over to his dresser.  He slips out of his dress shirt into a worn tee, taking off his pants.

“I was looking for the ibuprofen, I didn’t mean to pry,”  Steve says as Bucky climbs under the covers, wearing a pair of shorts.  The  _ Bolero  _ DVD sits in Steve's lap.

Faster than anything, Bucky snatches it up, shame making heat rise on his cheeks.  “That’s long overdue, I keep forgetting to return it,” he mutters. The case has Steve’s face on it; kohl-lined eyes closed in ecstacy.  Bucky deposits it beneath his phone. Face down. “Do you have a headache?”

Steve shakes his head, pointing to Bucky’s side of the bed where the ibuprofen now sits.  “Figured I’d keep it ready for you, tomorrow. You call me a lightweight, but you get the worst hangovers.”  He fluffs his pillow, and moves to turn off his lamp.

Bucky does the same, and the room plunges into darkness.  He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling for a very long time.  Occasionally, headlights shine in through the blinds, reflecting off the ceiling.  He knows Steve isn’t asleep yet. His breathing is too controlled.

“Aren’t you going to say something?”  Bucky eventually asks through the skin of his teeth.  Better to get it over with. Rip the bandaid off before it sticks too hard.

A few moments pass in silence, and Bucky starts thinking that maybe Steve really is asleep.

“About what?”  Steve says quietly.

“The way I watch you.  Study you.” Bucky swallows a little.  He says indecisively, “You don’t find it creepy?”

The sheets rustle as Steve shifts.  Trying to get comfortable, or maybe he’s just uncomfortable with the conversation.  “No. I don’t think it’s creepy.”

Bucky nods his head, even though Steve can’t see it.

“It’s flattering, to be honest,”  Steve continues with a low chuckle.

A spark of something sour lights in Bucky’s veins.  It’s easy to recognizes the feeling for what it is. After all, he’s felt it countless times before.  Burning hot humiliation.

_ Flattering _ .

His struggle.  His pain. The constant ache in the bones of his fucked up feet.  The sleep he neglects to stay in the studio, pushing himself to dance better than Steve is  _ flattering _ .  Bucky forces out a laugh, but it tastes bitter on his tongue.

“You’re the greatest dancer I know,”  he admits, apropos of nothing.

Steve’s breathing stops, then starts again.  “Oh.”

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted to be.  But you know that, don’t you, Steve?”

Bucky rubs at the tears falling from his eyes, hoping they’ll stop flowing if he wipes at them hard enough.  It is the alcohol talking, but for some reason he can’t make himself stop.

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be you.  Every time our teachers chose you to perform a solo. Every time Fury heaps praise upon you.  The way Peggy wants you, and just settles for me. Good, perfect Steve Rogers, the apple of her eye.  She gives you everything, and leaves scraps for us,” Fisting a hand in his hair, he snarls, “I thought she used you, but that’s not it, is it?  You used her to have the person you really wanted. How can perfect Steve Rogers know what the  _ fuck _ love is when you've never felt the pain of rejection?”

Steve curls in on himself, his back shaking, but Bucky’s tongue still spits out vitriol.  All the envy he’s harboured for years, it spews out of him in a toxic flood.

“You have  _ everything _ I want.  I want your life.  I want your position.  I—”

Bucky’s teeth click painfully as he closes his mouth with a snap.  It hits like a fist in the gut, what he was about to say, and Bucky bites his tongue to the point that he tastes blood.

Steve’s in love with someone else.  Bucky has nothing to offer other than a failing career, failed relationships, and so much goddamn jealousy over things that Steve can’t even control.

_ I want you. _

He sinks his teeth into his wrist and holds back his scream.


	8. these green-eyed beasts

## these green-eyed beasts

Bucky wakes at six o’clock to his alarm.  Muttering to himself, he slaps all over the bed for his phone, finding it under the small of his back.  Right, he wanted to go for a hike in the hills before class. Bucky rolls over, and blinks at what he sees.

Steve lies on his side, facing Bucky, still fast asleep.  His hair is a bird’s nest sticking up all over the place, but that’s not what Bucky focuses in on.  Deep circles sit under Steve’s eyes. He did that. That’s his mess, and he has no idea how to clean it up.  He stares long and hard until Natasha appears in the doorway, freshly showered and fully dressed.

“Last night was interesting,”  she says, running a comb through her tangled hair.

“Yeah,”  Bucky agrees, groaning at the persistent throb at his temples.  He grabs for the ibuprofen. Cracking it open, he dry swallows the last two capsules.

She smiles kindly, evidently seeing how uncomfortable he is.  Walking over to the bed, she bends and kisses his cheek. Bucky blinks at her, but she just stares at him, a serious look on her face.  “Don’t hurt him.” Startled, he pulls back, but she just keeps on smiling, sadly this time. Patting his cheek, she says louder, ”Get your shit together, James.  You too, Steve.” She blows him a kiss, and then she's gone.

Steve groans, and rolls on his back.  Bucky's gaze falls where his shirt rides up.  He swallows, and looks down at his lap.

“Fuck,”  Steve moans.  “I think my hamstrings are wrapped around my neck.”

“Warm up with my roller,”  Bucky offers weakly.

Steve hums.  “I’m going to take a shower,”  he says, slipping out of bed, stretching his arms above his head with an indecent groan.  “What's for breakfast?”

Bucky’s voice cracks.  “Frozen burritos?”

Steve locates his phone, and flips through it.  “Fuck that, I'll make pancakes,” he says, and walks right into the bathroom.

Bucky chews on the inside of his cheek.  Grumbling, he drops back into bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He has a busy schedule today.  First, the _Afternoon of a Faun_ recording with Steve.  Then, _Midsummer_ rehearsals.  He’s learning the role of Puck.

When the casting list was posted, he was beyond eleated.  Peggy’s retelling of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ is beyond brilliant, even though it’s anything but a faithful homage to Shakespeare's original play.  Most literary adaptations into ballet aren’t, but Peggy takes it a few steps further. While Frederick Ashton cut out the forced marriage of Hippolyta and Theseus to make _The Dream_ fit into one act, Peggy went in the opposite direction.  She added to the story, having Hippolyta slay the man who tried to tame her into marriage.

Critics either love it, or they hate it.  There are no in betweens. Some say she ruined the gauzy, magical feel of the play.  Others say she retained that in her choreography, but expanded on the darkness that was just out of reach in other adaptations.

Despite all that, Puck is a fun, solo role, and Fury must have appreciated his work in _Sechs Tänze_ to give it to him.  Bucky just wishes he could dance opposite Steve’s Oberon, but unfortunately they are in different casts.  After last night’s realization, it’s no wonder he subconsciously wanted to dance with Steve.

Bucky groans, bringing the blanket up over his head.  He has feelings for Steve. Actual heart-fluttering feelings.  And he only realized it after he said some pretty unforgivable things.  Story of his life.

A few more minutes in bed, then he’ll get up and face the music.

An hour later, and Bucky climbs out of the shower to find a cooling pile of pancakes on the kitchen counter.  The ice buckets are gone, and Steve is dressed in clothes he must have pulled from his duffle. He’s in the living room, rolling out his back.  Hips in the air, rocking back and forth on Bucky’s roller.

Bucky stares a little.  He should be used to Steve wearing clothes that cling like a second skin, but there’s something intimate about this outfit.  Black leggings with geometric mesh panels, a Johnny Cash muscle tank, and socks with a hole so Steve’s littlest toe peeks out.  He looks away, pretending that he isn’t getting something out of watching Steve roll out the kinks in his body.

Jupiter weaves in between Bucky’s feet.  Her dish is full to the brim, courtesy of Natasha.  She doesn’t know Bucky likes to measure her food so she doesn’t overeat.  He attempts to skim a bit off the top, but Jupiter hisses at him, batting at his bare ankles.

“Ouch,”  he grumbles at a particularly vicious strike.  Fine, let her get heart disease, he doesn’t care.  Bucky grabs a fork from the drawer and digs into the pancakes while the coffee percolates.  Jeez, there’s chocolate in these. Where did Steve even find chocolate? What’s the caloric content of chocolate chip pancakes anyway?

Steve shifts on his side to get his IT bands rolled out, and Bucky just about chokes at the bright pink ‘babydoll’ printed over his ass.  Coughing, he sticks his head under the tap, gulping down some water. He leans fully over the counter, cheek pressed against the cold formica, cursing himself, his feelings, and his big fucking mouth.  Things have never been this awkward between them.

Someone must have rescued Pierce’s offer from the sink, because it sits on the counter, unopened.  Bucky stares at it, then shakes his head. Procrastination isn’t a specialty of his, but for Pierce he’ll make an exception.  He takes the letter and dumps it onto a pile of unopened mail.

“You okay?”  Steve calls, but Bucky waves aside his concern.

“Fine, fine.”  He pushes his hair out of his face.  Turning around, he wrangles a half hearted smile.  “Want to go hiking?”

“Yeah,”  Steve says quietly, looking up with sad eyes.

What a way to realize that this is the first time Steve has even glanced in his direction all morning.  Yup. He fucked up. He fucked up so bad. He has no idea how to even begin repairing the huge chasm between them.

Bucky pours himself a cup of coffee.  “Steve,” he starts nervously, hiding his face behind the mug.

“Yeah?”

“Are we good?”

“I think so, Buck,”  Steve lies.

***

Bucky shades his eyes against the sun, looking down into the smoggy Los Angeles Basin.  The Hollywood sign lies across the valley, high above the pollution. It’s easier to work out up here, where the smog is too heavy to climb.

“We should talk,”  Bucky says, reluctantly.  He’d rather pretend nothing happened, and just forget about it.  At least that’s how he approached all his failed relationships, and one night stands.  Hence the failure. Loki's the only one that stuck around, but that has more to do with Loki as a person than anything Bucky did.  Loki cares more about fostering contacts, than the fact that Bucky dumped him out on his ass the morning after.

Steve startles, nearly dropping his phone mid selfie.  “Talk?” He asks carefully.

This time it has to be different.  Bucky cares about Steve too much to treat him badly...  again.

“About last night.”

Steve chews his bottom lip, betraying how much he’d also rather not talk about this.  He slips his phone into his pocket. “What about it?”

Shuffling his feet, Bucky wrings his hands, a pile of pent up nervous energy.  It seems climbing a really big hill couldn’t work everything out of his system.  “I said some cruel things to you.”

Steve looks down at his feet.  He wanders over to a nearby acacia, sitting on a boulder under the shady branches.  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want to apologize.”

“Well, apology accepted.”

Bucky lifts a disbelieving brow.  “I don’t think it is, though.” Bucky sits beside Steve, dropping a hand on his knee.  Steve jerks away. Just as quickly, Bucky pulls back. It’d hurt less if Steve slapped him across the face.  “I hurt you, I didn’t mean to.”

Steve works his jaw.  “No, Bucky, I think you did.”

 _Exactly like Rumlow_ , he doesn't need to say.  Steve has too much self respect—righteously so—to put up with another asshole like Rumlow.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, might be the death of his oldest and most fulfilling friendship.  Tears prick in his eyes. He has to fix this. He needs to.

“I think crazy shit sometimes, but that’s all it ever is: thoughts.  It doesn’t mean a thing, I never should have voiced it. It isn't all I think about when we’re together, I swear,”  Bucky pleads, like a complete putz.

Steve nods sharply, looking out over the city, but not at Bucky.  “I don’t want you to resent me. I couldn’t stand it.”

“I don’t resent you,”  Bucky says gently. He works his throat, swallowing down his pride.  He needs to get everything out in the open, or he will lose Steve, there’s no doubt in his mind.  Steve doesn’t tolerate bullies. “Envy is the furthest thing from hate.”

Steve shrugs like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders.  “What’s the closest thing to envy?”

Love.

“Respect.  You’re my best friend,”  he says in an exhale. “I’m just…  It’s only…” Bucky stops. He takes a deep breath, chews on the inside of his cheek, then tries again.  “I’m jealous of everything you’ve accomplished.”

“Okay,”  Steve sighs, curled up on himself.

“I don’t like causing you pain.  Last night was a mistake, I shouldn’t have hurt you.”

“I shouldn’t have made light of your feelings.”  Bucky lets out a short, surprised laugh. There’s so much misplaced guilt in Steve’s voice.

“You didn’t.  I’m an idiot, and you caught me in a bad place.  Pierce has a way of digging under my skin, making all my insecurities surface.  It’s not your fault for feeling flattered. It’s all me.”

“What he did to you, Buck…”  Steve trails off. Bucky waits, but he doesn’t seem interesting in finishing the sentence.  They both sit in silence for a few minutes more, watching the hustle and bustle of the city coming alive beneath them.

Bucky stands first, stretching out his back.  “C’mon, we should get going, we’re going to be late.”

“Our rehearsal is today,”  Steve says, as if Bucky wasn’t intimately familiar with the schedule.  They’re posting the video on all platforms, and everyone in the industry will be talking about it soon.  “It’s going to be fine,” Steve says, picking up on his anxiety. “I’ve done a few of these before. Nothing will ever be as bad as the time I tore a hole in Pepper’s hose on live TV.”

Bucky frowns.  “Why didn’t I hear about that?”

Steve shrugs.  “Because it’s not a big deal, shit happens.”

Bucky draws a circle in the dust with the tip of his shoe.  One frowny face later, and he says, “What if you drop me?”

Steve rolls his eyes, and climbs to his feet.  He starts walking down the trail. “I won’t drop you, since I’m not picking you up.  Peggy’s choreography has no lifts, remember?”

Bucky jogs after Steve, catching up.  “What if she adds them when she gets a good look at your arms?”  He tries to joke, but it comes out flat. Bucky’s still unsure about Peggy, but he’s trying.  For Steve’s sake.

Steve, bless his heart, only chuckles.  “She’s been looking at my arms for years now, I doubt she’ll suddenly be inspired.”

“It would be fun though, if she added lifts,”  Bucky suggests, nudging Steve’s side.

Steve just snorts.  He eyes Bucky up and down.  “I could do it, too, you’re probably only a Natasha and a half.  I’ve lifted heavier at the gym.”

“Excuse you, I’m at least two Natashas, maybe more,”  Bucky says, then, “We should suggest it.”

Steve quirks a brow.  “I thought you said you didn’t want me lifting you?”

Bucky lifts his nose in the air.  “I’d do it for the art.”

Steve guffaws.  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.  I’ll have you know I’ve never dropped a partner.”

“Wow,”  Bucky says sarcastically.  “Someone, give him a promotion.”

Steve smirks.  “Fury already has.  It’s called being a principal.”  And just like that, he could sing to the heavens.  Everything is back to normal between the two of them.

“I still can’t believe you’re earning more that me.  Why do you always come over to my apartment? We should go to your mansion more often.”

Steve blushes all blotchy.  He forgot his sunblock, didn’t he?  Peggy’s going to kill him. “I don’t live in a _mansion_.  It’s a condo.”

“If you can see the Hollywood sign from your window, it’s automatically a mansion, no matter how strongly you deny it.”

“Yeah, yeah.  It’s a good retirement investment.”

“For when you retire at fifty?”  Bucky says. Fifty’s practically ancient for a dancer, but Bucky can’t picture Steve doing anything but dancing until his feet fall off.  “You’ll sell it, move to Texas, and open a chicken ranch?”

“You’re thinking of that Dolly Parton movie.”

“Huh?”

“ _The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas_?”  Steve says.  “We watched it a few months ago.  The brothel was called the Chicken Ranch.”

Bucky laughs, remembering.  “Well, I’m sure you’d make a killing opening a Chicken Ranch.”  Bucky waggles his brows, and Steve sighs dramatically but smiles anyway.  Bucky’s heart swells. He feels an overwhelming urge to lean over and smack a kiss to Steve’s cheek.

“Shut it.”

Bucky unlocks his car.  “For real though, we should ask Peggy about the lifts.”

“Fine.”  Steve rolls his eyes.  “Let’s do it.”

***

“ _Afternoon of a Faun_ has no lifts,”  Peggy says bluntly.

“It also doesn’t have a guy dancing the part of a nymph, but I figured while we’re breaking the rules, what’s one more?”  Steve says with a wide grin.

Peggy squints up at Steve’s face.  “You have a sunburn.”

Steve pales.  “That’s irrelevant.”

“Actually that is very relevant, I can’t have my lead looking like a strawberry.  At least Barnes tans in a uniform fashion. You burn.”

“Just put concealer on me, it’s no big deal.”

Peggy huffs.  “With the way you sweat under stage lights, it’ll melt off within an hour.”

“Good thing the production’s only ten minutes long,”  Steve says.

Bucky glances between them.  It’s hard to believe Peggy and Steve were sleeping together.  He always thought of their relationship as one of mentor and mentee.  Even after everything Steve said to reassure him that their relationship wasn’t exploitative, Bucky doesn’t like it.

“Barnes?”

Bucky blinks, finding both Peggy and Steve frowning at him.  Even the ballet master, Coulson, glances over in concern.

Bucky clears his throat.  “Ma’am?”

“I asked if you agreed with what Steve was suggesting.”

“He was the one who brought it up, Peggy,”  Steve says.

“I asked Barnes, not you,”  she says. “Well?”

“I think it’s a good idea,”  Bucky says. “What do you have to lose?  You could always just decide not to include them.”

Peggy taps a finger under her chin.  “Tell you what, we’ll try something, and if I like it, we’ll see.”

“Ma’am,”  the presenter says,  “We’re rolling in half an hour.”

Bucky glances at the two giant cameras.  Then to his fellow dancers sitting in the stands, about to witness what a fool Bucky is soon to make of himself.  Even Tony’s there, sitting beside Sam.

Steve takes his hand, stroking a thumb along his knuckles.  “It’ll be fine. Relax.”

“Okay.”  Peggy claps her hands.  “After Steve’s leap, I want you to transition into a fish dive.”  Bucky opens his mouth. “Don’t worry, Barnes. I’ve seen your _Don Quixote_ pas de deux, you can do it again, I’m sure.”

“Isn’t that fish dive too showy?”  Bucky asks. “I was thinking something more nuanced?”

She grins.  “Maybe I just want to see you succeed at one of the most difficult lifts in ballet.”

“Last time I was on the giving end,”  he says wryly.

“And this time you’re receiving.”  She winks. Was Peggy always this saucy?  “We have thirty minutes, let’s perfect it before we film.”

“No pressure then?”  Bucky says.

“I’ve got you.”  Steve claps him on the shoulder.  “You won’t even have to do anything, just a little jump.”

Bucky chuckles.  “How high?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ll catch you.  Even if you mess up.”

“You’re the best friend a guy could ask for, truly,”  Bucky snarks.

Coulson gives them a few technical instructions.  They don’t want Steve dropping him flat on his ass, or even worse, on his bad foot.  It’s not that he’s never been lifted before. He has, just never like this. Last season the company put on the all-male _Obsidian Tear_ , and Bucky was fortunate enough to be tossed around like a potato sack.  Those lifts were designed to accommodate someone of his mass. The fish dive Peggy wants them to do was meant for a ninety pound ballerina.

Needless to say, he is not a ninety pound ballerina.

Peggy gives the signal to the pianist.  Bucky takes a deep breath and gets into position.

Steve leaps right behind him; Nijinsky reborn.  Everything disappears except for them. They clasp arms, and then Bucky jumps, but he barely needs to leave the stage.  Steve grabs him about the waist and throws him higher. He’s flung in the air, and an arm wraps around his hips. He swings Bucky down in a dive, supporting him tight.  All the blood rushes to his head, and he only just remembers to tuck one of his legs around Steve so he doesn’t slip out of grip.

art by [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/182970214318/the-second-illustration-for-the-fic-diminuendo-by)

“Holy shit,”  Peggy swears to a completely silent room, as Steve sets him back on his feet.  Coulson looks stunned, even the pianist has stopped playing.

“We should have captured that on camera,”  Coulson sputters.

“I got it,”  Tony says, awed, holding up his tablet.  “Boy, did I get it.”

Bucky and Steve stand behind Tony as he plays back the scene.  When it comes to the lift, Bucky watches, stunned, as they pull off a perfect one-handed fish dive with no practice, no previous communication, nothing.  It’s unheard of.

“That’s a fluke,”  Bucky says, pointing at Tony’s tablet.

“We’re rolling in five,”  a cameraman calls to the studio at large.

“Bet you five bucks we can do it again?”  Steve asks, and what the heck, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Cheap.”  Bucky smirks.

“Twenty?”  Steve offers with a teasing grin.

Bucky slaps Steve's hand.  “You're on.” Steve slips his hand into Bucky’s, squeezing it once before they move back into position.  The cameras roll, and the presenter quietly introduces everyone and summarizes their experiment for all the people watching at home.  Peggy’s more directive this time around. She taps their cues, calling out counts.

Bucky looks into Steve’s eyes as he jumps, and Steve throws him higher than he’s ever flown before.

Bucky loses the bet, and he’s not even mad about it.

Ultimately Peggy decides she won’t include lifts.  After an hour of rehearsing the same part over and over again, it’s plain to see why.   _Afternoon of a Faun_ is a ballet that’s based on a rejection of formalism, it was the first contemporary ballet.  Meaning, that while classical dancers look as though gravity holds no sway over them, _Afternoon of a Faun_ is grounded, it is earthy, a quality that has remained, even through Peggy’s adaptation.

It was nice of her to humour them like that.  And at the very least, the lifts helped them in another way.

Social media blows up.  Becca texts during wrap up to inform him that the hashtag #hecanliftmeanytime is trending.  A terrible tragedy, until Fury calls to reluctantly let him know they've garnered enough talk to have their one night.  Tickets will go on sale the day of the fundraising gala. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Bucky swears he can almost hear the pride in Fury’s voice when he says it’s projected to sell out.

***

Okoye thrusts the trick spear through Scott Lang’s chest, and he falls in a dead faint.  She stands tall and proud over Lang’s prone form. She’s Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, triumphant over Theseus, the man who stole her from her people.  She plays the role so well with her shaved head, tattoos, and imposing figure. The audience is going to love her.

A slow clap sounds from the other side of the studio.  Okoye relaxes her stance, rolling her eyes.

“You’re trying to outshine us all, Okoye,”  M'Baku says from his perch in a rickety folding chair.  “I see you.”

M'Baku dances like a mountain gorilla, but Peggy loves him.  She even adjusted Oberon to suit his style. He's no delicate fae, he's big and powerful.  Not a body type often seen in ballet, but damn if M’Baku doesn’t make it work. Bucky wanted to dance opposite Steve for purely personal reasons.  Professionally, he loves his pas de deux with M’Baku. Getting to kiss him as Puck is just an added bonus.

Okoye casually spins the spear on her shoulders.  “Trying, Lord M'Baku? I'm succeeding.”

M’Baku throws his head back, laughing with his entire body.  She’s not even teasing when she uses that title. According to his Wikipedia page, he’s is a tribal lord.  How a tribal lord manages to govern his people, and still have time to dance, Bucky doesn't know. He barely has enough time management skills to keep his cat alive.

“I’m gonna have to agree with her there.”  Lang climbs to his feet, dusting off his sweats.  “I know it’s acting, but you scare the crap out of me, Okoye.”

Scott Lang is a soloist, new to the company.  As far as Bucky is aware, Lang used to work in San Francisco for Sharon’s company.  He’s also very fond of showing everyone pictures of his kid. Even Fury, who barely tolerates it.  Either Lang doesn’t know that he’s slowly torturing Fury, or he just doesn’t give a shit. And in that case, he earns Bucky’s respect.

Okoye claps Lang on the back, forcing him a step forward.

“I’m calling it a night, guys,”  Bruce says, checking his watch. “You all did great today, and Okoye?  Keep it up.”

She smirks.  “I will.”

The others disperse to their respective bags, but Bucky stays by the barre.  The studio is free for the rest of the evening, and he plans on making the most of it.  He slips earbuds into his ears, placing his leg up on the barre, curling his toes the way the physio showed him during his last appointment.  There’s a lot of leaps involved with Puck, but his foot isn’t acting up, thankfully. He just needs to be careful.

He goes through the choreography in his head.   _Running leap, head turned back to Oberon, attitude legs, a quick turn around, kneel on the left leg, arms spread open.  What do you need? Fast feet, a one, and a two, and a three, and a four, because Puck could put a girdle around the earth in forty minutes to please his king.  Plié, a one, a two, jeté, a three, a four, coupé_...

A shadow falls over him, and Bucky glances up at the mirror.  An imposing M’Baku stands right behind him, wearing a sly grin that can only mean trouble.  Bucky pulls out his earbuds.

“What’s up?”  He quips.

“Up and at ‘em, pretty boy,”  M’Baku says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.

“Oh geez,”  Bucky says, straining his neck to look where M’Baku’s pointing, only to find Okoye with her arm casually thrown over Steve’s shoulder.  She’s scrolling through her phone, chewing on a wad of gum, showing Steve something on the screen. Steve must sense him looking, because he meets Bucky’s attempt at deer-in-the-headlights with nothing short of a brilliant grin.

“He was waiting outside the studio, and kindly accepted our offer for a night out on the town.  You will join us, won’t you?” M’Baku asks the same way his ma used to ask him to clean the house.  As in there was no asking involved. They’ve already got Steve, he might as well come along too. If anything, to keep him out of trouble.

“Can I at least have a shower first?”  Bucky drops his leg from the barre, plucking at his soaked through tank.  “I reek.”

M’Baku grins even wider, really showing off those pearly whites.  “Of course. What am I, an animal?”


	9. internal fixation

## internal fixation

M’Baku drives them to a club in West Hollywood.  It’s one of _those_ scenes.  A long line out the front door, people wearing painted-on clothes, and an exterior flooded with neon purple lights over a tacky Greek Revival facade.  It’s a vaporwave monstrosity come alive. Very Hollywood.

“Relax,”  Okoye bends to speak in his ear,  “We’re not going to eat you.” Her gorgeous heels clack against the pavement as they walk right past the line, getting glares thrown their way.  Compared to her black dress, his white tee and sweats are boring as hell.

M’Baku chats with one of the bouncers, his thick arm around Steve’s waist.  While Bucky had showered, Steve had changed into a baby blue tank, hair carelessly brushed back with a dab of pomade to give it flair.  Skinny jeans cling to every dip and valley of his long legs. Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from his behind. It’s glorious. Steve’s having a great time, smiling like a hundred watt bulb.  Even the bouncer looks faint in the face of all that shiny enamel.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”  He glances up. Palm trees, tall enough that the tops are nothing more than black dots, protrude from the pavement, waving in the wind.  The last time Bucky went to a West Hollywood club, he met Loki—a headache in an hundred and fifty pound bag. After that crazy night, he swore off picking up hookups from clubs.  There’s something about a crazy lightshow, and a boozy daiquiri that fucks with what he considers attractive in other humans.

Then again, he’s not here to find a hookup.  He’s not entirely sure why he’s here, to be honest.

“What are you worried about?”  She asks curiously.

“I haven’t been to a club in at least two years,”  he explains. The bouncer waves them through, and they get a few murderous looks from a group of overly tanned men at the front of the line.  “I don’t remember how to dance. Well, how to dance _that way_.”  He points to two girls grinding up on each other.

Okoye chuckles.  She says something in Xhosa, guiding him in with a hand on the small of his back.  Bucky blinks at her in confusion.

“Maybe we’ll eat you a little bit,”  she clarifies.

Once inside, Bucky can’t make out anything but strobing lights and the throbbing of the crowd.  People push up against him, moving to the beat of deafening music. He nearly gets swallowed into the mess of it all, but Okoye wraps her hand around his wrist, pulling him along.  Before he knows it, he’s climbing a set of metal steps to a floor filled with cushy booths. They surround a railing that looks down onto the dance floor. M’Baku and Steve are already settled in a booth.  Okoye slides in past M’Baku, and Bucky takes the seat next to Steve. The music is not that loud up here, but Steve still leans in close enough for his lips to brush Bucky’s ear.

“Are you having fun?”

Bucky pulls back so Steve can see his face.  He quirks a brow, and Steve laughs. A waitress arrives then, and sets a couple drinks on the table in front of them.

“You drinking tonight?”  Steve asks over the music.  Bucky considers it, then figures why the hell not.  It’s Friday night, and he doesn’t have work tomorrow.  He nods, and Steve hands one of the drinks over. “A hundred and fifty calories, I asked.”  Bucky smiles, pushing aside the pink paper umbrella. He takes a sip through the neon straw.  Mmm, fruity.

M’Baku spreads his legs wide, body open and inviting.  He grabs one of the drinks, and downs it in one shot, crunching on the leftover ice.  Slapping the glass on the table, he tucks the pink umbrella behind his ear. “You know what this evening needs?  More dancing.” M’Baku climbs out of the booth. He holds his hand out to Bucky. “You should join me, pretty boy.”

Bucky shakes his head, blushing up to his ears.  “It’s been a while,” he says sheepishly.

Undeterred, M’Baku shrugs, moving on to Steve.  “How about you, _Mister Rogers_?”  He rolls Steve’s name in his mouth like it’s expensive wine.

“Bucky?”  Steve touches the hand he has curled on the table.

He startles, looking over at Steve in surprise, a weird feeling in his middle.  Bucky laughs it off, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “You don’t have to ask my permission.”

Steve smiles, unbelievably fond.  His fingers trace out a little pattern on his hand.  “I wasn’t asking permission, Buck, I was asking if you could move.  So I could, y’know, get up.”

Bucky’s cheeks heat up like a five alarm fire.  Stuttering, he climbs out of the booth, unable to look Steve in the eye.  Fingers ghost over his cheek. “Thanks,” Steve says.

“No problem,”  Bucky squeaks. M’Baku takes Steve’s hand, and laughing, they head towards the stairs.  Bucky stares after them with something akin to longing. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck, feeling like an schmuck.  Thankfully, Okoye says nothing, even though her eyes say a million words.

A few minutes pass, and Bucky twiddles his thumbs until he cannot stand the awkwardness a second longer.

“How did you meet?”  He asks Okoye. Compared to M’Baku, Okoye’s posture is impeccable.  His bubbe would have loved her.

She swirls the remaining drink in her glass.  “He gave me his number before he challenged my king for the throne,”  she says casually. She points to the railing. “Shall we watch them make fools of themselves?”

“He challenged your king?  You’re kidding.” Bucky gapes, following after Okoye.  They find a place with just enough elbow room. Okoye leans against the railing, sipping from her glass.  The DJ plays a poppy dancehall remix, but it’s too dark to make out individuals on the dance floor, let alone Steve and M’Baku.  Bucky braces his elbows on the metal bars, hands dangling over the edge, making sure to hang on tight to his drink.

“He nearly succeeded in killing him,”  she says. “Which is the only reason I called him.”

“Because he failed?”  Bucky asks curiously.

She shakes her head.  “If he failed, I would have laughed in his face.  He drew first blood. My king still has the scar, right here.”  She draws a circle on her chest, between her shoulder and sternum.  “He came close, and that is honorable in my eyes.”

“Strangely enough that makes perfect sense.”  Bucky bobs his head, finishing his drink. “So you’ve met the king of Wakanda?  I hear he’s very handsome.”

Amusement dances in her eyes.  “I suppose you could say I’ve met him.”

Bucky rolls his glass in his palm.  He looks around for the waitress, but she’s nowhere to be found.  He holds the glass up. “I’m going to get another one, you want something?”

She shakes her head, distracted by something across the room.  Bucky follows her line of sight to a girl sitting in a booth, a clunky beast of a laptop on the table in front of her, lighting up her face.  She looks much too young to be at a club. No bouncer worth their salt should have let her in.

Okoye clicks her tongue,  “That foolish girl.”

“You know her,”  Bucky says, surprised.  “Is she your sister?”

“She is my responsibility,”  Okoye says resolutely. “If you will excuse me.”

“Sure,”  Bucky says, pitying the girl and whatever verbal asskicking she’s about the get.  If Bucky ever caught Becca at a club, he would immediately transform into their ma, then drag her home by the ear.  He’s no tough as nails Jewish woman, but he sure as hell is a protective older brother.

Climbing down the stairs, Bucky dodges couples grinding up on each other, making his way over to the bar.  He orders a daiquiri when he finally gets a bartender’s attention, forgoing whatever drink Steve bought him.  He’s about to hand over his card to get a tab going, but a hand wraps around his wrist, stopping him.

“Put it on mine,”  M’Baku says, “And a water for me, thank you, Luke.”  He cracks his bottle open when Luke the bartender hands it over, downing it in one go.

“Where’s Steve?”  Bucky asks loudly, over the music.  M’Baku gestures out to the dancefloor, pointing past a group of people.

Steve’s on his own, dancing with his head thrown back.  His hips sway to the smooth R&B pouring from the speakers, but he’s way out of tune, which must be why no one’s attempting to get all up in his business.  He looks like a snack regardless. Really, really good.

“For such a graceful man on stage, he sure stepped on my feet a lot,”  M’Baku bends to say. “You should ask to join him. You’ll have better luck, I imagine.”

“Oh, I can’t—”

“You’re not going to let him dance all by his lonesome, are you?”  Bucky can practically feel M’Baku’s grin.

One thing’s for sure, when it comes to Steve, Bucky’s a weak willed man.  He’s halfway to the dance floor when he realizes he forgot all about his daiquiri.

“How are you so bad at this?”  Bucky yells, stopping right in front of Steve.

Steve just shakes his head, grinning wildly.  His hair is plastered against his forehead, and his arms glisten with sweat.  He wiggles his fingers until Bucky comes closer. Throwing his arms over Bucky’s shoulders, he leans in.  “Dance with me.”

“Yeah, yeah,”  Bucky says, cracking a smile as Steve wiggles his hips ridiculously.

When he’s on stage, Steve knows exactly what he’s doing.  Not a lot of people realize just how strenuous ballet is on the mind as well as the body.  When Bucky dances, he’s always going over what he’s doing wrong, what he’s doing right, and what he can improve.  Steve is the same. They’re always fighting to keep a smile plastered on their face, but Steve’s the only dancer he knows who can smile all the way through multiple double tours.

Right now Steve doesn’t give a damn how he looks; he’s carefree, dancing to the beat of his own drum.  Soon, Bucky is too. He forgets that he hasn’t been clubbing in years. He just lets go, and dances with his best friend.  He’s having _fun_.  Steve grabs his hand and spins him around, plastering himself all along Bucky’s back, laughing.  The crowd swells, pushing them closer together, but Bucky doesn’t mind one bit. Steve’s got his hands wrapped around his torso and hip.  Bucky reaches back, sliding his hands into Steve’s hair.

“Having fun?”  Steve asks wryly, rubbing his nose behind Bucky's ear.  Bucky doesn’t answer. He moves his hand to the back of Steve’s neck, eyes fluttering shut.  Everywhere Steve touches comes alive. Goosebumps rise on his skin, and Steve’s hand on his torso moves higher, skimming over his pec.

Bucky gasps, opening his eyes.  And like the parting of the red sea, the crowd moves.

He freezes, a chill running down his spine.  Steve makes a questioning noise in his throat, but Bucky's too busy staring at the woman at the bar, staring at him.  It's Sharon's funeral all over again.

“I’ll be back.”  Bucky jerks away from Steve.  “I promise,” he adds when Steve’s hand goes around his wrist, trying to tug him back into his arms.

Strobe lights shine in his eyes, blinding him, but Special Agent Valkyrie is still there when he’s done blinking stars out of his vision.  Not a hallucination then. Great.

Her gaze stays fixed on him, and it’s plain to see that she isn’t here for the music.  He’s not arrogant enough to assume she’s tailing him, but with the way she’s looking at him, it’s easy to reach that conclusion.

“Are you following me?”  He asks the moment he extricates himself from the crowd.

She downs something amber coloured, slapping the glass on the bar top.  “Can’t a girl get a drink after work without being accused of something?”  She pulls loose the tie at her throat.

“Just wondering why you feel the need to spend twelve bucks on a drink when you’ve got...”  He mimes swinging back a flask. She isn’t stupid, she knows exactly what he’s talking about.  He’s pretty sure feds aren’t supposed to drink on the job.

“Ah, my emergency stash.”  She signals the bartender, ordering another whiskey on the rocks.  “That’s for when I’m working.”

“And you’re not working now?”

She tilts her head, looking up at him thoughtfully.  “Not in any official capacity, no.”

Bucky's eyes narrow.  He orders a bottle of water from the bartender.  Cracking it open, he wets his dry tongue, watching her every move like she's a vulture circling.

She looks back to the dance floor, then leans right into his personal space, smelling of whiskey and old cigarettes.  Bucky wrinkles his nose, tempted to push her away. “You’re not good at hiding what you’re thinking. You show everything on your face.”

Bucky huffs.  “And what am I showing on my face?”

She gulps down her whiskey, throat bobbing.  Bucky winces. It must burn like a sonofabitch.

“You should get some help with that.”  Bucky points to the empty glass she sets back on the bar top.

“It’s all the help I need.  Besides, apathy kills faster than the alcohol ever could,”  she says. “Believe me, I know. You’ll find out, soon enough.”

“This I’ve got to hear,”  Bucky mutters under his breath.  “What makes you think I’m apathetic?”

“Oh, aren’t you?”  She quirks a brow. “I’ve seen you on stage.  Dancing in that god awful monstrosity your company put on in October.”

“Ballet isn’t for everyone.”  Bucky shrugs, he’s heard worse from his own extended family.  It doesn’t bother him anymore. “Not everyone loves it.”

“Do you even love it?”  She asks abruptly, and Bucky gives her a sharp look.  “Watching you dance was like watching an animatron. I thought you were completely devoid of soul.”

“You _thought_.  Past tense?”  Bucky says stiffly.

“Your last ten minutes on the dance floor changed my mind.  You’re not devoid of soul. You just share one with Mr. Rogers.”

Bucky laughs, though he find the situation anything but funny.  “So you’re saying Steve’s my better half? That he keeps me, what?  Sane?”

“Not quite.”  She undoes the top button of her shirt, pulling out something that glints in the neon.  “Love’s a mighty fine thing.” She brings the object to the light. It’s a ring on a chain, a wedding band by the looks of it.  “Until it changes into something that’s no longer love.”

Bucky assesses the ring.  “Divorce?”

“Dead wife.”  She tucks the ring back under her shirt.  “My colleagues said that dying the way she did comes with the job.  And yet, I spent years of my life—years I should have spent mourning her—obsessing over the bitch that did it.  And where did it get me?” She taps her empty glass, making her point.

“I'm sorry,”  Bucky says, clenching his jaw in pity.  He can't imagine what it must be like to lose a significant other.  He hopes he never has to find out.

“Mr. Selvig was notoriously private.  No one else knew about his trips to Big Sur.  Except for you. Now isn’t that strange?” She stares at him unnervingly, drunk as shit despite her eloquence.  “Something about you rubs me the wrong way, Mr. Barnes. I think we can both agree on that.”

Bucky snorts with derision.  “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s said that.  Though the last guy was just anti-semitic. I don’t know what game you think you’re playing.”

“Not a game.  I’m just in the business of locking away men with obsessions.”

“Last I heard that was not a crime,”  Bucky says, shivering despite the heat emanating from the tightly packed bodies around them.  She looks at him like he's dangerous, unpredictable even. He doesn’t understand what he’s done to deserve this.  He should report her if she keeps following him without a motive. Who knows what else she’s capable of?

She slips off her stool, doing up her blazer’s button.  “You have a nice night, Mr. Barnes.”

When Bucky returns to Steve with a bottle of water, he plasters on a smile and pretends that everything is alright.  Steve’s not so easily fooled, he frowns so deeply, creases form between his brows. When it comes time for them to leave the club, he gets into Bucky’s Lyft without a word.

Later that night, Steve climbs into his bed, wrapping around him like a blanket.  Just like when they were kids.

“You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”  Steve whispers into his hair.

Bucky says nothing, he just pulls Steve’s arm tighter around his waist, squeezing his eyes shut. 

art by [lisamott9](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/post/182822394807/first-one-of-my-sketches-for-the-stucky-au-bang)

***

The first Monday of November, and the curtain falls on _Midsummer’s_ opening show.  Bucky exits the stage to find Steve waiting in the wings.  He hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Valkyrie since the club. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing, or if she’s just gotten better at hiding.

Bucky wipes the cooling sweat off his neck with a fluffy towel, draping it over his bare shoulders.  “You shouldn’t be backstage when you’re not performing.”

Steve lifts a brow.  “Hypocrite.” Taking him by the hand, he tugs him away from the rush of dancers leaving the stage.  “Sam let me in. I’m meeting someone for dinner, later.”

“Of course he did.”  Bucky wonders if that someone is a date.

“You taking anyone to the gala?”  Steve asks casually as Bucky steps out of his costume, hanging it on the racks to be refreshed for tomorrow’s performance.  Down to his tights, the tunic gets whisked away by a harried stage hand.

Bucky faces Steve, and lifts a single brow.  “You think I have time to find a date?” He gestures around him.  “With all of this going on?”

Steve spins him around, and without Bucky having to ask, deftly picks at the complicated braids holding up his hair.  He’d undo them himself, but his arms are too sore. “Sam has a date,” Steve says quietly as he combs his fingers through the waves and tangles.  Steve’s nails scratch at his scalp, and a flash of pure pleasure winds its way down his spine like thick molasses. Bucky’s eyes flutter.

He wets his lips.  “Sam is a player. He parties like it’s 1999, and doesn’t need sleep like us regular human beings.”

Steve plucks the towel off Bucky’s shoulders, rubbing it through his sweat damp hair.  Bucky closes his eyes, on the verge of groaning. “He takes cat naps during lunch.”

“That explains so much,”  Bucky says as they walk to the showers.  “Who are you taking? Your left hand?”

“Ha ha, very funny.  Natasha asked me.”

“Oh?  The pap are going to have a field day.”  He pauses, breath caught in his throat. “Are you and her…”

“No!”  Steve shakes his head, then says more quietly,  “No, she just wants someone on her arm. Have you picked out a tux?”

“I’ll wear the same one from last year.”  Steve makes an expression that Bucky can only describe as aghast.  “What?” He says, “What’s wrong with that?”

Steve holds the door open for him.  “I can’t believe you have to ask that.”

He grabs a quick shower, the steam doing wonders for his sore knees, and comes out to find Steve has lain a fresh set of clothes on the bench.

Dressed in jeans and a henley, Bucky gathers his makeup from his dressing table, dumping it all in his duffle.  Flipping through his makeup pouch, he notices something missing. Someone nicked his favourite lipstick. Natasha always said it made him look like a pouty cherub.  Not to mention it was crazy expensive.

“What’s wrong?”  Steve asks, putting down the magazine he was reading.

Bucky opens a few drawers, hoping he just misplaced it, but no.  It’s gone. Bucky clicks his tongue in frustration. “Someone filched my Charlotte Tilbury lipstick.”

“The pink one?”  Steve ducks his head, looking around the floor.  “Why would they do that?”

Bucky motions putting on lipstick, and Steve makes a disgusted face.

“Isn’t that unsanitary?”

“You’d be surprised what some people are willing to tolerate for a brilliant lipstick.”  He sighs, throwing his hands in the air. Yup, stolen, not lost. “I can believe you’re abandoning me in my time of need.  My heart’s broken.”

Steve sticks his tongue out.  Bucky twirls his towel and whacks Steve on the ass.

“Buck!”  Steve shrieks, jumping a foot in the air.  “You're such a jerk.”

“Love you too,”  Bucky says, meaning it in more ways than just the one.

“Dick,”  Steve mutters under his breath, but ducks his head, smiling anyway.  Bucky throws an arm over his wide shoulders and lets Steve take his weight.  He carries Bucky like it’s easy. He's always been good at that. Don’t get him wrong, the missing lipstick bothers him.  Last year a fan snuck backstage and made off with Wanda's cygnet tutu. He knows the people he works with, and he trusts them.  He doesn't think any of them would steal from him. But he’s also pretty sure he doesn’t have any crazy fans.

“Who’s this friend you’re meeting?”  Bucky asks curiously.

“That’s why I waited for you, he sent me a message on Instagram a few hours ago to let me know he was in town.  Timothy Dugan, you remember him? He went to the same elementary school as us.”

“No shit?”  Bucky recalls a chubby kid with a shock of red hair who insisted they call him by a ridiculous nickname.  Then again, he shouldn’t be one to speak against ridiculous nicknames. “Good old Dum Dum. I thought he joined the army?”

Steve shrugs.  “He wanted to meet up, said I should bring you too.”

He shrugs.  “Sure, I’ll come,”  Bucky says, holding open the door to the parking lot for Steve.  “We haven’t seen him since we were kids. Does he still look the same?”

“Bigger.”  Steve lifts a hand to around Bucky's height.  “He posted a few selfies on his account.”

Steve waves, and a man in a leather jacket too thick to be worn comfortably in the California heat waves back.  The army sure beat Dum Dum into shape. He’s about as muscled and tall as Bucky, with a thick handlebar moustache, and a sly grin.  He leans against a tricked out 70s sedan that must be overcompensating for something. It has chrome hubcaps, and stylized angel wings painted on the trunk like a bad tramp stamp.

“Timothy,”  Steve says, holding out his hand.

Dum Dum smiles, wide and unabashed.  He shakes his head, opening his arms wide.  “None of that. Come on.” Steve gets pulled into a stranglehold of a hug while Bucky watches on in amusement.  “What’s it been, fifteen years since we last spoke? How are you doing?” He asks, pulling back.

“Great, busy as heck though.  You remember Bucky?” Steve gestures to him.

He smirks.  “Course, how could I forget Jamie?”  A once familiar Brooklyn twang comes through in full force.  It’s kind of nostalgic.

Bucky rolls his eyes.  “It’s nice to see you again.”

Dum Dum grins.  Throwing a thumb over his shoulder, he says,  “How about a pub? Yelp says there’s a great one a few blocks over.”  He waggles his considerable eyebrows. “At least fifty beers on tap. We can make like old ladies and gossip about all the shit we’ve done this past decade and a half.”

Bucky laughs.  “Sounds like fun.”

The walk is short and brisk, and they arrive just in time for a booth to free up.  Inside, a couple recognises Bucky, surprisingly enough. A few pictures and an autographed playbill later, and he slips into the booth beside Steve.

“You’re popular, aren’t you?”  Dum Dum remarks.

Bucky shakes his head.  “Not as popular as Steve.  I’m surprised no one’s recognized him yet.”

“That happen a lot?”  Dum Dum asks, munching on a handful of wasabi nuts.

“Oh yes.”  Bucky teases.  “He’s very popular.”

“Bucky,”  Steve bemoans,  “Stop embarrassing me.”  He puts on his glasses, and looks over the rims, shaking his head like a scolding nun.  Dum Dum glances between them, a funny little smirk on his lips.

The waitress comes over to take their orders.  Bucky goes straight for the lox—no cream cheese thanks.  Steve chooses a burger—pickles on the side. And Dum Dum orders Pad Thai—extra peanuts, please and thank you.  Strangely enough, because Bucky remembers freaking out when Dum Dum turned a horrifying shade of purple as a harried teacher stabbed an EpiPen into his thigh.

“I thought you were allergic to nuts?”  Bucky asks, confused.

Dum Dum shakes his head.  “Not nuts. Blueberries. They make me swell up like a balloon.”

“Good to know,”  the waitress says, making a note on her pad,  “Any other food allergies?” She asks.

“No,”   Steve and Bucky say at the exact same time.

“Great.”  She slips her pad back in her pocket.  “Your food will be out shortly. You can order beer from the bar whenever you're ready.”

“Thanks,”  Bucky says with a smile.  She disappears into the crowd.

“I’ll grab the drinks,”  Dum Dum says, climbing from the booth,  “What’ll you have?”

“A Blue Moon,”  Steve says.

Bucky, knowing absolutely nothing about beer, says,  “Same.”

“Weak,”  Dum Dum huffs, goodnaturedly.  “Me? I prefer a good, dry stout.”

“How Irish,”  Steve teases, a light lilt to his words.  Dum Dum sends Steve a wink, sauntering over to the bar, where he proceeds to lean over the top, casually flirting with the bartender.  A heartbreaker, that one.

“Jesus.”  Steve says, smile dropping, and tone souring in a complete one eighty.  At first Bucky thinks Dum Dum did something to piss him off, but Steve pulls his phone out of his pocket.  Reading the message he just received, he tsks, and shoves it back in his jeans. “He's been texting all day.”

“Who?”  Bucky asks.

“Brock,”  Steve spits out the name like it puts a bad taste in his mouth.  “He keeps apologizing, like that’s enough, after what he did.”

Of course Rumlow got in contact with Steve, of fucking course.  He’s always been a selfish prick. He never could blame that on the drugs.

“Who keeps apologizing?”  Dum Dum asks, returning with their beers.

“No one,”  Steve says, relieving Dum Dum of his burden.  “Thanks.” He takes his beer, and slides over Bucky’s.

“Have you talked to Murdock about him?  Texting falls under the order.” Bucky asks casually, glancing over at Dum Dum.  He doesn’t seem to be paying attention, he’s too busy making goo goo eyes at the bartender.

“I will,”  Steve says with finality, and that’s the end of the matter.

Steve strikes up a conversation with Dum Dum, while Bucky pulls out his notebook.

“You did that USO tour at our base.  I barely recognized you when you climbed on stage,”  Dum Dum says to Steve. “You used to be so small and skinny.”

“You were there?”  Steve asks, surprised.

“Yeah, I wanted to talk with you, reintroduce myself, but they had you and the gal up and outta there like the wind.”

“Sharon,”  Steve says.

“Huh?”

“Her name was Sharon,”  Steve firmly repeats.

“Sure,”  Dum Dum says.  “Sharon. She was good, but you were otherworldly.  One of the guys even compared you to an angel fallen from the heavens.  Most of us never saw a guy move like that before. Girls yeah, on the TV and such, but guys?  Never.”

Bucky’s too busy with his caloric calculations for the day, he misses what Dum Dum says next, until he notices it was directed at him.

“Sorry what?”  He apologizes.

“I said I used to do stuff like that.”

Bucky glances up to find Dum Dum nodding at his notebook.

“When I was overseas, I would write down everything I did.  So all the days wouldn't blend together. It's all sand and rocks and even more sand out there.”

“Oh,”  Bucky says, startled.  He closes the notebook and tucks it back in his bag. “It isn't a diary or anything like that.  It's just so I can keep myself from under-eating or overeating,” he adds, embarrassed.

Dum Dum shakes his head.  “It chases away the anxiety of thinking you've gone too far, or not far enough.  It's exactly a diary. It's all your thoughts and desires, your weaknesses and your strengths.  It shows your dedication to your career.” Dum Dum winks. “And your cheat days.”

“I don’t cheat,”  Bucky jokes. “But for real, my ma thinks I have a complex.  I’m also pretty sure Steve feels the same, though he never says a thing.”

“You do you, Buck,”  Steve says.

Dum Dum’s green eyes look right through Bucky, contemplative.  “Sometimes a little obsession is not a bad thing.” He smiles, then picks up his glass, downing a significant portion of his stout, getting foam all over his moustache.

Steve leans across the table.  “I never asked, why are you in town?”

Dum Dum shrugs, leaning back in his seat.  “You know how it is. It’s why everyone comes to LA.  City of angels; winged and fallen. I'm here to mix business with pleasure.  Got a sugar sweet gig working head of security at a swanky strip joint. They don't dance as pretty as you boys, but the things those girls know to do with poles could make a grown man sweat.”

Bucky lifts his glass.  “To dancers, exotic and otherwise.”

“May your asses never quit,”  Dum Dum says, and the two of them clink their glasses together.  Steve just rolls his eyes.


	10. the devil and his magic

## the devil and his magic

When they were still young, Bucky would meet up with Steve during the off-season.  They would fly out to a random city between New York and California, hire a car, then take to the road.  With Steve’s ma at the wheel, they saw Death Valley at sixteen. They camped in Yellowstone at seventeen, and kayaked along the Mississippi river at eighteen.

Puberty arrived abruptly for Steve.  One year he was shorter than Bucky, and the next they were the same height.  It was strange watching him grow up like that; in pieces, like stop motion. They both got their start at four years of age, and attended the same academy until the were sixteen.  Then Steve moved to California with his ma, and Bucky remained in New York. He stayed behind, and he calcified into stone.

When Steve left New York he was five foot nothing, but he had more chutzpah in his little body then most grown men.  When Bucky left New York he was exactly the same as he is now. Some days he wonders how Steve did it. It wasn't just the weight lifting, or the protein powder.  It wasn't some special pill that could be bottled up and sold. It was in him all along. It’s why everyone loves Steve. He’s genuine.

Bucky’s just a piece of rock in a leotard, masquerading as a dancer.  His first and only girlfriend said he was cold, calculating, cruel without intention.  He’s so focused on one single thing, he has nothing left to give.

He’s wanted to be better than Steve since they were four years old.  Even now, when his career is halfway over, he isn’t even close.

***

Steve’s phone rings, and he pauses mid stretch to reach into his bag.  Bucky looks up from his book, watching out of the corner of his eye. They’re alone in the main studio, an hour early for class.

Earlier that morning Bucky had checked out a bunch of books on choreography from the archives.  Peggy had emailed him the list weeks ago, and he’d finally succumbed. Bucky isn’t sure he wants to venture into choreography, but he won’t know for sure unless he gives it a try.  He’d planned on taking the books with him to a local deli for breakfast, but something had drawn him to the studios. It’s funny, but he’s always had a finely tuned Steve Rogers radar.  Perfect for arriving just in time to pull him out of sticky situations.

When there are no sticky situations to be had, apparently it's good for finding Steve when he's bent over, stretching out his calves.

Now, he’s curled up next to Steve, turning pages, pretending he isn’t listening in on the conversation.  He's not being nosey, not at all.

“Nat,”  Steve says, obviously dumbfounded,  “What?”

A frantic murmuring sounds from the other end of the line.

“What’s going on?”  Bucky asks Steve.

“Nat’s went to see Wanda,”  Steve murmurs, holding his hand over the receiver.  Putting the phone to his ear again. “What?!” He exclaims.

“Put her on speaker,”  Bucky urges, and Steve does.  “Natasha?”

Her voice comes through, a tinny.  “Someone tried to kill Wanda. The cops think I did it.  Come quickly, and bring a good lawyer.” She rattles off an address in Pasadena, then hangs up.

For one long moment they stare at each other.  It takes a second for them to catch up, but when they do, everything happens all at once.  In a flash, they’re out in the parking lot, jogging over to Bucky’s car, both still wearing their practice clothes.  Steve’s on his phone, calling Matt Murdock while pulling a sweater over his head.

“He’ll meet us there,”  Steve says, buckling his seat belt as Bucky steps on the gas pedal, pulling them out of the lot with a screech of rubber on asphalt.

“He’s blind,”  Bucky says, dumbfounded.

“His partner’s driving.”

Bucky nods.  “Call Coulson, tell him we won’t make class.”

“Already on it,”  Steve says as Bucky swings them onto the 110.  He guns it, hoping they won’t get pulled over. In the end, they get stuck in traffic.  They don’t say a single word between them the entire hour it takes them to reach Pasadena.  Steve sits beside him, staring out of the window absently. He holds his phone on his knee in a white-knuckled grip; the only sign that he’s as freaked out as Bucky.

Bucky chews on his lip, bogged down in terrible thoughts that keep spiraling.  Wanda must be hurt bad if she can’t protest Natasha’s innocence. Not for one second does he think that Natasha actually hurt Wanda.

The industry has a great many things to say about Russian ballerinas.  Things like they’ll do anything to get forward, and violence comes easy to them.  He’s heard rumours of glass in rivals’ pointe shoes, and nails sticking out of floorboards.  He doesn’t know if any of those rumours have merit. Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. The only thing he knows is that Natasha is his friend.  Three years ago, when he was still new to LA, she didn’t befriend him just because he was sleeping on Steve’s couch. She made an effort to get to know him.  Those first few months were so lonely with Rumlow taking up all of Steve’s time and energy. He didn’t know anyone in the city, but she made him feel welcome.  He trusts her.

Somehow Murdock is already there.  When they walk into the police station, they find him speaking with a cop.  There’s a long-haired man signing some papers beside him: Murdock’s partner.  It's hot in the building, and Bucky’s already sweating up a storm. The lack of AC or air flow of any kind does not help.

“Matt,”  Steve calls,  “What’s going on?”

“They’re releasing her,”  he says, tapping his cane on the side of the counter, he doesn't notice the cop glaring at him.  Steve does, and he folds his arms over his chest, lifting a single brow. At least the cop has the decency to look chastened.  He quickly glances down at his paperwork. “She grabbed coffee before she went to Miss Maximoff’s residence, and paid with her credit card.  She would not have had time to set up.”

“Set up what?”  Steve asks, just as Bucky wipes the sweat from his forehead, saying,  “That was fast.”

“I’m an efficient man, and Foggy’s a fast driver.”

“Done”  Murdock’s partner, Foggy, says, sliding the clipboard across the desk.

The cop pipes up,  “We may need to ask Romanova some follow up questions—”

“You may not.  You have her witness statement,”  Murdock says firmly, “Once you have produced an appropriate suspect, Miss Romanova will be all too happy to help you.  Until then, you direct all questions to me.”

Natasha appears in a doorway, followed closely by a cop.  Her hands are cuffed behind her.

“If you would please unshackle our client,”  Foggy says. The cop hovering over her scowls, but does exactly that.  He isn’t gentle about it. Natasha glares at him, rubbing her wrists. She looks a lot worse for wear.  Her hair is a mess, and her clothes are disheveled, like she slept in them. Was she arrested yesterday?  And they only let her call them today? What dicks.

“Nat are you alright?”  Steve asks in concern, wrapping a hand around her elbow.

Natasha sniffs proudly.  Rolling her shoulders, she says something extremely scathing in Russian.

“I speak your language, you know,”  the cop growls.

“I know,”  she spits, ready to go for his throat.

“Gentlemen, lady, we must be on our way,”  Murdock says patiently. “Take care, Miss Romanova, and let us know if the police contact you again.

“Send me a nice, fat bill, boys.  You deserve it.” She shakes their hands, and flips the bird at the cop.

art by [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183012266313/the-third-illustration-for-diminuendo-by)

Outside, Natasha squeezes into Bucky’ tiny backseat.  “Thanks for coming to get me. They still have my car in lockup.  Evidence, they’re saying, but it’s bullshit. The bastard escaped out the back door.  Didn’t even come near my baby. Christ, if they get a scratch on my Stingray I’m going to be so pissed.”

“What the hell happened?”  Bucky asks, harried. “Is Wanda okay?”

“She’s at the hospital, an ambulance took her away.  I didn’t get the chance to speak with her before they arrested me, doubt she could have spoken anyway with what he did to her.”

“Nat,”  Steve says gently,  “What happened?”

“Fuck, I need a cigarette, do you mind?”  She asks, rummaging in her purse. She's shaking like a leaf, and it's isn't just from nicotine withdrawal.

“I do mind, actually,”  Bucky says, pulling them out of the lot.  “No smoking in my car.”

“Fine,”  she sighs, pulling out a compact instead.  She finger combs her hair, despite the fact that it’s just going to get messed up on the highway.  Everyone has their way of coping, one way or another.

“I thought I’d see how she was doing,”  she starts, “I’ve been injured before, I know how terrible it is to be alone after it happens.  Wanda’s staying with her brother, but he’s at Caltech full-time. He’s hardly ever home. I called ahead and let her know I was coming.  She said she was at a doctor’s appointment, so I grabbed a coffee.”

“When was this?”  Bucky asks.

“Yesterday afternoon.  She told me she’d be home at three.  When I got there, the door was unlocked, and the curtains were all pulled.  I went inside, but it was pitch black. I have a good sense for strange, and that was fucking strange.  There was a vase by the entrance, so I picked it up.” Natasha rubs a hand over her face. “Wanda was in the living room, and a man was behind her.  I couldn’t see his face. He wore a ski mask, a leather jacket, and his back was to me. He was big, fuck he was big. Wanda…” She takes a deep breath, and Bucky looks in the rearview mirror.  She’s staring down at the compact in her folded hands, haunted by her memories. “She was struggling, her legs were kicked out as he dragged her along the carpet like she was a damn ragdoll. His hands were up, at her throat, and that’s when I knew he was trying to strangle her.”

“Strangle her?”  Steve whispers, quietly horrified.

“With a rope,”  she mutters gruffly, clicking the compact shut, tossing it in her bag.  “I threw the vase at his shoulder, and it shattered to pieces. He turned to me, and I was so fucking scared.  I just froze. I know how to fight. I know how to _win_ a goddamned fight, and I froze like a coward.”  She huffs, hands fisted at her sides in frustration.  “He took off, went right out the back door. I checked on Wanda, made sure she was still breathing, then called 911.”

“Why did the cops think you did it?”  Steve asks.

She shrugs.  “I told them we were ballerinas in the same company.  One Google search later, and this ballsy detective produces an opinion piece off someone’s blog saying that Wanda would soon surpass me.  Guess that passes for motive in this day and age.”

“That makes no sense, you called the cops in the first place,”  Bucky points out.

“That’s not even the worst of it,”  she says, pulling a makeup wipe from her purse, trying to rub the mascara from her face.  She just succeeds in smearing it more. “The attacker had to know Wanda’s schedule. Think about it, he knew her brother wouldn’t be home, he knew when she’d leave for the doctor’s so he could have time to set up, the only thing he didn’t expect was me.”

“Then it wasn’t a random home invasion,”  Steve says grimly.

Her mouth flattens in a line.  “He had this whole scene arranged.  He dragged a chair and step stool to the centre of the living room, hung a fucking rope from the rafters.”

“He tried to stage a suicide?”  Bucky gapes.

“He must have known she was injured,”  Steve points out. “Why else would he put out a step stool?  He knew she wouldn’t have been able to climb the chair with her knee in a brace.”

“Fuck, that’s messed up,”  Bucky says.

He stares out onto the open highway, stewing in his thoughts.  Special Agent Valkyrie believes Sharon’s death was a murder, staged as an accident.  Steve thought the circumstances of Mr. Erskine's death were suspicious. Erik is still missing.  Now Wanda was nearly murdered, and it was staged to look like a suicide.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think a serial killer is out there murdering dancers, and the people who work with them.  Except, that’s ridiculous.

Right?

***

Bucky sets a bottle of ibuprofen right next to his regular bag of ice.  He points behind the counter to the shelf where Mr. Sharma keeps the alcohol.  “Could I get the Jim Beam?”

Mr. Sharma looks up from a weathered copy of _Wuthering Heights_.  He lifts a brow.

“Extenuating circumstances,”  Bucky explains, pulling a few bills from his wallet.  He pushes his hair away from his face wishing he had tied it up.

“Sure,”  Mr. Sharma says with some skepticism, but he grabs the bottle of bourbon anyway.  “Tough day?”

Bucky sighs, rolling his ankle.  “Like you won’t believe.”

His foot is killing him.  Bucky imagines the titanium screw the surgeon drilled into his bone twisting in further and further.  It was supposed to hold the broken pieces together while they healed. It was meant to become a part of him.  When he’s dancing alone in the studio, he sometimes can hear it grinding away. He knows it’s all in his head—the screw hasn’t moved an inch since he had the surgery, there are x-rays proving it—but that knowledge doesn’t assuage his fears.

At the very least, the ibuprofen and ice will help with the swelling.  The alcohol will help with other things.

With the ice bucket set in front of his couch, Bucky slips his bare feet into it with a pained groan.  Jupiter meows, hopping onto the couch beside him, her tail swishing. He feeds her a morsel of his dinner, and she nuzzles up to his neck before wandering off to curl up by the radiator.

Bucky pulls his laptop over his knees, and powers it up.

He looks for news on Wanda, but the cops haven’t made the attempt on her life public.  There’s nothing in the news cycles, just an old article about her injury, and the dangers of landing badly on a jump.  At the very beginning of the article, the author embedded an image of her. She’s sitting in a hospital bed, looking wan.  Bucky clicks on it, and it takes him to her Instagram.

The last photo she published was a few days ago.  It’s of Wanda and her brother sitting at their kitchen table eating quesadillas.  Her leg is balanced on a chair. It’s bandaged to high heaven, and a robotic brace is strapped onto her leg from the top of her calf all the way to the bottom of her ankle.  It’s obvious that she wouldn't be able to bend that knee to climb a chair, even if she wanted to.

He scrolls down her feed, but she hasn’t posted anything regarding her doctor’s appointments.  The guy that tried to hurt her wasn’t just a psycho fan. He had to know her schedule, or at least know how to get the information he needed.

A bit further down the page, he notices a picture of himself.  Curious, he clicks on it.

He’s laughing at something, leg up on the barre in a turnout.  It was taken during _Sechs Tänze_ rehearsals.  Coral red lipstick is smeared on his mouth, a little bit of blush dabbed on the apples of his cheeks.  Stage makeup for _Sechs Tänze_ is much more extreme, but he’d wanted to channel a bit of Mozart that day.

 **wandamaximoff**   Dame Margot Fonteyn once said, ‘great artists are people who find the way to be themselves in their art.’  Have you ever seen a guy who embodies that as much as Bucky Barnes? Well, other than @ **callmesteve**  # **buckybarnes**

Bucky chuckles.  Looking down at the the comments, the very first one catches his eye.

 **callmesteve**   what a gorgeous pic, you’ve really captured him!

Bucky clicks on Steve's name, and it brings up his profile.  He posts at least once a day, everything from professional advice, to artistic shots, to workouts, to videos of him dancing.  It's well-curated content that Steve puts a lot of effort into.

Bucky wiggled his toes.  His legs are starting to go numb so he pulls them out of the bucket.

He finishes up his steak dinner, and records the calories.  He has to eat more protein this month. Puck is a strenuous role, heavy on the jumps.  His muscles need to be in tip top condition, or his feet are going to suffer after every performance.

Bucky cleans up the hall, and gets ready for bed.  He rolls the bourbon in his hand, but leaves it behind on the kitchen counter.  At the last second, he grabs the Ibuprofen. Taking it to the bedroom, he puts it back in his bedside drawer.

Climbing under the sheets with his laptop, he settles in comfortably, clicking on Steve's latest video.  It turns out to be the fish dive from their _Afternoon of a Faun_ rehearsal.

Bucky jumps, and Steve launches him in the air, catching him on the way down with ease.  He lets the video loop a few times. Steve's fingers spread wide on his hips. His eyes never leave Bucky the entire time.

 **callmesteve**  get yourself a friend like this # **iwillcatchyouanytime** # **buckybarnes**

Wanda was right, Steve posts more photos of him than anyone else in the company.  There’s a picture of the two of them after a hike, Steve’s arm thrown over his shoulder, the Hollywood sign in the background.  Bucky’s smiling at the camera, but Steve’s looking right at him.

The next photo is of Steve laughing, face half covered by his hand.  It’s the photo Bucky posted as a joke. Steve left it up. The comments are filled with hearts and smiley faces, and people wishing their romantic relationships could be as cute as Steve and Bucky’s.

He clicks on another of Steve’s videos.  He’s in the gym, weightlifting, sweat on his chest, forehead wrinkled as his trainer gives him instructions.  Steve looks right at the camera, and gives it a little wink. Bucky’s heart skips a beat.

In the next video Steve and Maria host a crash course in Benesh notation.  Maria points to a series of abstract symbols on a board, and Steve performs the movements.  They talk about the history of choreology; how ballets were recorded on staves—just like music—before the invention of the camera.  Steve curls up like a cat next to Maria, and explains to his younger followers that dancing isn’t the only career path in ballet. Choreology is mathematical just as much as it is artistic, and who says one has to choose between their right brain and left?

Bucky falls a little bit more in love with Steve right then and there.  He skims through the feed, digging himself deeper and deeper. Steve shines.  He’s a natural born leader, confident and kind. His Instagram is as much a record of his greatest achievements as it is encouragement for his followers to pursue their goals.  He’s the embodiment of the American dream. If his followers work hard, and put effort and love into everything they do, they too can be just like him.

With a sharp intake of breath, he stops at a single image from the fall season three years ago.  The season Bucky left New York, and joined the company.

It’s Steve in his Oberon costume.

Forest green tights that fade to a lighter shade down his endless legs.  A gossamer tunic cut in a deep valley at the neck, sewn with silken ivy and vines.  A sparking cape flowing out behind him like a curtain of hanging moss. Upon his head sits a crown of ivy and snowdrops.  His cheekbones are contoured in deep green. His eyebrows are redrawn in a dramatic sweep up to his temples. Green eyeshadow is smudged upon his lids.

He’s a fae like no other.  The king of the fair folk. One with the forest, and so damn beautiful.

Bucky hadn’t seen Steve in over two years when that picture was taken.  Pierce had commandeered his time like a leech. Only years later he figured out that by taking away his social life, Pierce was gaslighting him into complete dependance.  He believed he was making a sacrifice for his career, a sacrifice that every great dancer had to make to get where they were. He felt so alone those years. Back then he was still healing from his injury, but Pierce made him come to the studios anyway.  He made him sit in on classes, torturing him with what he couldn’t have.

One day, he just snapped.

He bought a plane ticket, called a moving company, and packed up everything he wanted to take with him.  He called a lawyer, and two days later he was short ten grand, out of his contract with Pierce, and on a plane to California.  He called Steve when he arrived at LAX, and left a message asking if he could crash on his couch for a few weeks, just until he could get back on his feet.  An hour passed without a reply, and then another. Bucky sat on his luggage, with his head in his hands. He wondered if he made the right decision, wondered if it was too late to fly back to New York.  But then, he heard his name.

He remembers looking up, and there Steve was, running across the terminal, cape flying out behind him.  Oberon, the lord and king of faeries, come to save him. Bucky thought he was dreaming.

He had called when Steve was in the middle of performing _Midsummer_.  At curtain fall, Steve had taken a cab to the airport, without bothering to change out of his costume.  He found Bucky and fell to his knees, right then and there, wrapping him in his arms. For the first time in so many years, he finally felt like he was home.

Bucky touches the screen.  He runs his fingers along the shape of Steve’s jaw and imagines he's back at the airport.  He closes his eyes, and pictures Steve as he was back then.

He’s blinking at Bucky, blue eyes and snowdrops.  His neck is so long, his lips so pink. He’s holding himself still, trust in his eyes as he gazes up at Bucky, one balled hand on his knee, the other wrapped around Bucky’s wrist.

“Stevie,”  Bucky whispers fervently.  His head is so heavy, his throat thick with emotion.  Bucky’s thumb smooths away the worried frown on Steve’s face.  He runs his fingers through wispy blonde hair. Steve’s eyes flutter, lashes thick with mascara, and his hand tightens on Bucky’s wrist.  A heat brews in his veins, raising goosebumps on his skin.

 _Bucky?_  The Steve in his mind’s eye whispers.

He leans forward, and meets Steve’s mouth in a kiss.

His hand drifts down to the noble length of Steve’s neck as he hovers over him.  Steve has applied green contour even this far down. Bucky fingers press against strong tendons, and Steve moans into his mouth.  His kisses are so sweet, like bubblegum chapstick.

Bucky wants him so much.

His breath is coming fast, heart hammering against his ribs.  He kisses along Steve’s cheek, then sucks his earlobe into his mouth.  Bucky’s hand drops to the valley of Steve’s chest. He feels the edge of the costume, the way the gossamer tickles his skin.  He leans his weight into Steve, pushing him back so he sprawls onto his elbows. He looks up in surprise when Bucky slips into his lap.

He tosses his hair over his shoulder.  Back then, his hair was shorter as Pierce demanded, but he prefers it long.  A bit of inaccuracy isn’t that distracting. It is his fantasy afterall. He imagines Steve slipping his hands into Bucky’s long hair, pulling his head back, biting at his chin, and he decides it was a very good decision.

Bucky reaches into his bedside table, fetching his lube.  He warms some in his palm, and imagines Steve reaching into his sweats, pulling him out.  He hisses in pleasure, as he strokes himself.

 _Do you like my hand on you?_  Steve murmurs into the shell of his ear, as Bucky rubs against him.  He splays his hands on Bucky’s torso, holding him firm. Steve smiles, he resembles something like the sun.

Bucky's breath hitches in his throat.  He can’t even process everything he’s feeling right now.  It’s just a fantasy. He knows that none of this is real. Steve isn’t here with him.  He’s far away, and he’s in love with someone that’s not Bucky. A bright, terrifying sharpness catches in his throat, and he closes his eyes, inhaling shakily.  What is he doing? This is so wrong. How can he treat Steve like this?

Leaves crackle beneath his knees.  The scent of a rolling mist high in the air.  Steve bites Bucky’s lip—hard, mean. Steve wouldn't be mean.  He could never be mean. A shiver runs down Bucky’s spine. He cracks his eyes open, and Steve is no longer Steve.  He's Oberon's desire for revenge on Titania. His features lengthen, his ears point, and his teeth sharpen into fangs.

“Oh god,”  Bucky mutters, hand moving faster and faster.  He can’t stop himself, he just can’t.

Behind him spreads a blanketing darkness; a domain suitable for a king of the deepest woods.  His pupils thin to piercing slits. He's an untameable fae watching Bucky like a wolf. Oberon laughs, and it sounds like the ringing of ancient chimes.  His voice is like nothing he's ever heard.

Bucky tastes blood on his lip as Oberon growls like a wild animal,   _Flowers swearing love in your eyes, and I'll have you._

Bucky's eyes roll back in his head, and he comes.

***

“Where the hell were you?”  Fury demands when Bucky rushes into the studio, an hour late for his coaching lesson.  He had woken up at ten, feeling like his head was stuffed full of cotton. When he tried to locate his phone, he couldn’t.  He had left it in the hall the night before, and slept through his alarm. Then, to make matters worse, there was traffic on the freeway.  

“I’m sorry,”  Bucky says, looking around the empty room.  “Where is everyone?” Bruce is nowhere to be seen, and neither are the other dancers.

Fury’s nostrils widen in anger, like a spitting bull.  “Bruce sent them away, because apparently you can’t spare enough fucks to show up on time for your appointments.”  Fury marches forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. Bucky takes a step back from the force of it. “In this company you arrive on time, or you don’t show up at all.  Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,”  Bucky says, voice cracking.  “But—”

“There are no excuses.”  Fury takes one long look at him, saying,  “You haven’t even warmed up, have you?”

Bucky looks down at his feet, eyes stinging from the shame of it.

"You know what your problem is, Barnes?  You have no humility. You think you deserve position in this company.  The only reason you’re not dancing in the corps is because Rogers begged on your behalf three years ago.  I wouldn't have even hired you, given the choice, but I was outvoted.”

Bucky’s hands shake in anger, and he glares down at his shoes, taking the beating.  He’s always taking it, he never fights back.

“You wonder why you haven’t been promoted?  What have you done to deserve it? Dancers like you are a dime a dozen.  Alex was right about you.  You have the skills, but you have no soul.”

_ Because it was beaten out of me by Alexander Pierce.  All that’s left is bitterness and hate. _

“You gave me Puck,”  Bucky growls, then snaps his mouth shut at the look on Fury’s face.

For one long moment that seems to stretch into infinity, he thinks he’s about to be fired.  Just like that, with the snap of a finger Fury can take everything from him, and he knows it.  He stares at Bucky with narrowed eyes, and his heart just about stops in his chest. He opens his mouth to take back everything, to apologize again and again, regardless if it would make a difference.  He can’t leave the company, he just can’t.

Fury scoffs.  “I’m beginning to see that was a mistake.  Now get the fuck out of my sight before I cut you from our programming for the rest of the year.”

Bucky  _ runs _ .

***

Poking through the large pile of junk mail on his counter, Bucky waits for his microwave dinner to defrost.  Pierce’s offer sits innocuously under a booklet of coupons. He stares at it for a few seconds more until curiosity gets the best of him.  It’s not like he’s going to accept the offer. He knows better.

His microwave beeps, but he ignores it.

He drags his pinkie under the flap, but then—  hissing in pain, he drops the letter. Blood beads up, and he sucks the digit into his mouth, tongue worrying at the papercut.

Once he stops bleeding, he picks up the letter, unfolding it.  Typed up all professional, and signed with a looping signature, it states everything Pierce offered, and more.

A salary just under eighty grand, a company subsidized apartment in Manhattan, along with roles he could only dream to dance again: Onegin, Don Quixote, Siegfried.  It’s everything he could want. The words blur in front of his eyes. He could have it all again, all he has to do is call the number on the top of the page, and it could be his.

Before he knows it, he’s dialing Pierce.  The call connects after only a few rings, despite it being nearly one o’clock in the morning in New York.

“Jamie,”  Pierce says, pleased,  “I’m so happy you’ve called.”

“Alex,”  Bucky breaths.  He takes a deep breath.  “I didn’t think I would.”

“What changed your mind?”  A rustling comes from the other end of the line.  Bucky can picture Pierce closing his fridge door, sitting on one of the stools by his counter, wearing one of the Kenzo hoodies he loves so much.  “You didn’t seem pleased to see me, last time we spoke.”

“I— I’m tired,”  he admits. He sinks down, his back against the cabinets.  He presses the phone closer to his ear. “I feel like I’m going nowhere.”

“You aren’t being treated the way you deserve,”  Pierce says softly. “You deserve to come home, and to see your family whenever you want.”

He wipes a hand over his eyes.  “I can’t leave Steve.”

“Who says you have to leave him?”

“What?”  He croaks.

“He’s in love with you, Jamie.  I could see it the moment you opened your door.  I knew it when you were still with us. That man is crazy about you.”

“Steve isn’t in love with me,”  Bucky says, so startled he stops crying.

“He is, and you should tell him how you feel.  I know you, Jamie. I know you love him too.”

“That—”

“Tell him before you come back to us.  He won’t want to leave you,” Pierce urges.

Bucky pulls the phone away from his ear staring it at blankly.  Has Pierce been replaced by a pod person? It’s strange enough that he’s giving Bucky relationship advice, but the fact that he thinks Steve is in love with him is baffling.  Even more so that he’s encouraging Bucky. It’s not just because it’s  _ Steve _ , and Steve’s too good for the likes of him.  Pierce has always been, and will always be, a huge homophobe.  Men like him don’t change in their convictions.

Pierce’s voice is barely a tinny when he says,  “Connor retired recently. We have already prepared a budget for the both of you.”

“Connor was younger than me.”  Bucky says blankly, but then it hits like a fist to the gut.  He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, and closes his eyes in resignation.  The  _ both of them _ , meaning Steve.  Pierce wants Steve, Bucky’s just a party favour thrown in as a bonus.  Not even a bonus, he’s just the bait. “What happened to him?”

“Nothing that could not have been prevented if he just listened to me,”  Pierce says coldly.

Bucky entire body jerks in a shiver.  He puts Pierce on speakerphone, and types Connor’s name into a search engine.  An article pops up in the _Times_ bemoaning the tragedy of his early retirement.  Apparently he ruptured his achilles tendon while on stage.  He’ll walk with a limp for the rest of his life. He’ll never dance again.

“Connor did listen to you,”  Bucky says lowly, firmly, squeezing his phone until the case creaks.  “We always listened to you, and that was the problem, wasn’t it? You fucked Connor over.  You fucked me over.”

“You fell due to your own distraction,”  Pierce says snidely. Gone is the gentleness.  Pierce’s familiar arrogance is a bitterness he wishes he could forget.  “You blame me for your own weakness, like a child.”

“That’s because it was your fault!”  Bucky yells abruptly, breathing heavily.  “You did that to me, it was you!” His voice wavers, and he clutches at his foot, a phantom pain going through it.  “You ordered me to fall! You practically pushed me yourself!”

“You haven't changed a bit, Jamie.”  Pierce laughs, cruel and capricious. “Still a whiny little faggot.”

Bucky inhales sharply, his hands shaking so bad he nearly drops his phone.

He was only sixteen years old when he confided in Pierce that he was bisexual.  He was like a father to Bucky. He thought he could place his trust in him. He was wrong.  Bucky will never forget what Pierce told him, as he grabbed him by the arm, spitting in fury.  He shook Bucky so hard his brain rattled in his skull.

_I won’t have any faggots in this company._

He made Bucky stand at the barre for three hours without a break, without a sip of water.  He hit him on the back of the legs when his form wavered. He cursed him when he bled so much it dripped onto the flooring.  He only took him to the hospital after he collapsed, delirious with dehydration. He forced Bucky’s head on his knees in the taxi, and combed his fingers through his hair.  He fisted a hand in Bucky’s hair and ordered him to lie about what happened. He made Bucky’s ma cry.

He ruined Bucky’s life.

“You’re a fucking snake.  You always have been,” Bucky spits.  “You’ll never have me again, and you’ll never sink your fangs into Steve.”

“You—”

Disgusted, Bucky hangs up the phone.  He drags himself to his feet, and tosses it on the counter.  Then he does what he should have done a long time ago. He open the window above his sink, grabs the box of matches, and sets the letter on fire.  It burns beautifully, to ashes in seconds. Bucky turns the tap on, and washes the ashes down the drain.

Bracing his hands against the counter, head between his arms, he breathes in the cool air sweeping away the smoke.

Just like that, Alexander Pierce is gone from his life for good.  He wishes he could fix everything that easily.


	11. yetzer hara

## yetzer hara

It’s the Friday morning before the Veterans Day long weekend, and Bucky waits for his family at the LAX arrivals gate with a bouquet of daisies, his ma’s favourite flower.  His parents decided to splurge on a hotel room, for reasons he'd rather not think about, but Becca’s crashing at his place. He hasn’t seen his family in what feels like forever, so he’s really looking forward to this weekend.

He spots Becca first as she makes a beeline straight for him, half asleep on her feet.  She’s shot up like a weed since the last time he saw her. Somehow, she’s taller than their da.  She’s trudging along a wheelie suitcase, pillow tucked under her arm. When she finally grinds to a halt in front of him, Bucky doesn’t even have to look down to talk to her.  She’s only an inch or two shorter than him.

“Hell, you’ve grown taller than a tree,”  he remarks.

“Eat a tapeworm, you ho,”  she mutters, and yeah, that’s his sister.  Bucky pulls her into a hug, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Where’s the parental unit?”  He asks, rubbing his middle, wincing.

“Gift shop,”  she says, as Bucky takes her suitcase.  “Might be a while.” Her mouth splits into a devious grin, and she holds out her hand, palm side up.  “Can I wait in the car?”

“It’s 95 degrees out there,”  he says, loading the suitcase onto a cart.  Geez, it’s so heavy, what does she have in here?  He honestly wouldn’t be surprised of she smuggled along the family dog.  Winston’s a slightly overweight, slightly blind mutt with a heart of gold, and Becca loves him more than she loves anything else.

She shrugs, wiggling her fingers for his keys.

Bucky lifts a brow.  “Da’s been taking you to empty parking lots,”  he says knowingly. He did the same for Bucky when he was learning to drive.

“I can parallel park with only one hand,”  she says, depositing her pillow on top of her bag.

Bucky lifts his brows.  “Impressive. Still not letting you drive my car.”

“How’s Steve?”  She asks innocently.

Bucky narrows his eyes, pointing a finger right at her face.  “I know what you’re doing. He's too old for you.”

She sighs and adjusts her glasses, like he’s the one being dramatic.  “I have a boyfriend.”

“You do?”  Bucky double takes, but curiosity is quick to replace the surprise.  “Anyone I know?” Becca grins, toothy, and brings up her camera roll, showing him a picture of an admittedly cute boy wearing overalls, cornrows in his hair, and a gap in between his two front teeth.  Bucky takes the phone from her, squinting at the picture. “How the heck did you snag someone like him?”

“I have moves,”  she snarks, “And Devon appreciates them.”

Stunned by the fact that his nerdy sister has more game then he did at her age, he hands the phone back.  “Still, boyfriend or not, no trying any of those moves on Steve.”

She rolls her eyes.  “He’s like my brother.  My cooler brother,” she adds, unnecessarily.  “Don't worry, just because you can’t pull your head out of your ass for five minutes doesn’t mean I’m gonna steal him from you.”

He frowns, but any scathing remarks are immediately drowned out by his ma hollering his name from across the terminal, startling a few jetlagged travellers going about their business.  A scant five seconds later and he’s smothered in her arms. The legs on that woman, it’s no wonder he’s a dancer.

“Ah!  My baby!”  She exclaims.  “I’ve missed you so much!”

His da materializes out of thin air, also wrapping his arms around Bucky, squeezing the ever living crap out of him.  With the way Becca wields her sharp elbows indiscriminately it’s no wonder they’re hugging him to death. They’re so starved of their children’s affection.

He huffs, but sinks into it anyway.  It feels like home. “I’ve missed you too.”

“What about me?”  Becca snarks.

“You, I could do without,”  he says, earning himself a swift kick to the backside, courtesy of Becca’s sneaker.  “Case and point.”

***

“This heat is terrible,”  Natasha grumbles, pushing aside a rack of tuxedos.  “The holidays should be celebrated in the snow.”

“December is still a month away,”  Bucky says, pointing out a nice burgundy tux, but Natasha shakes her head.

“Too red.  You’ll look like American Ded Moroz.”

“It’s Santa.  You know it’s Santa, you’ve been living in California for more than a decade.”

Natasha scoffs.  “Ded Moroz is superior to your Coca-Cola capitalist fat man in red suit.”

“I take great offense to that,”  Bucky jokes. He grins at her, and she smiles back.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s glad Natasha’s helping him choose a new tux on their lunch break, he just wishes she wasn’t so damn picky.  Becca’s not so picky; she isn’t even helping. Bucky cranes his head around, looking for his sister, finding her curled up on one of the couches beside a pile of rejected tuxes, reading.

Their parents dumped her on him, while they spend the day sightseeing.  She sat in on his rehearsal for _Midsummer_ with her nose alternatively buried in her phone, or Ronan Farrow’s new book.  His sister: fifteen years old, and already planning on running the State Department.  When she’d unzipped her suitcase, he’d been surprised to find a pile of books on politics in lieu of Winston the dog.

Bucky bought his family tickets to his performance tomorrow as a surprise, so it’s a good thing Becca wasn't paying any attention.  The play is over four hundred years old, but the ballet was only choreographed by Peggy in the early 2000s, and she changes quite a bit of the plot.  So, spoilers.

“I miss my mink coat,”  Natasha sighs, forlorn.

Bucky stares at her in disbelief.  “Could you be any more of a stereotype?”

“James,”  she says his name like she thinks he’s an idiot,  “In Russia the holiday season is four months long, everyone knows this.  October, November, December, January. There is no Halloween, no Thanksgiving to break it up, and well enough.  You Americans celebrate your forefathers stealing someone else's land.”

“That’s Columbus day,”  Bucky says.

She picks out something with a herringbone pattern, then just as quickly returns it to the rack.  “Then what is Thanksgiving?”

“Uh… I guess we celebrate it twice?”

“See, you’re better off just extending the holiday season.”

Bucky grins, shaking his head.  “Stop making so much goddamn sense, woman.”

“Christmas music,”  someone says to their right.  Bucky turns to a man that seems very out of place.  Messily blonde, and blue eyed, he looks like he was recently blasted with an air horn.  His suit sits noticeably to the right of centre, and his tie has a huge coffee stain down the front of it.  “You wouldn’t want to extend the holiday season because that means four months of nothing but _Jingle Bells_.”

“What if I like festive music?”  Natasha says defensively. Bucky knows for a fact the only festive music she likes is _The Nutcracker_ Suite.  They have to enjoy the music they dance to, otherwise what’s the point?

“You won’t like it anymore if you have to listen to it 24/7,”  the man says, “Trust me, I work in retail, I’ve witnessed my colleagues’ agony.”

“Hmm,”  Natasha says noncommittally.

“I’m Clint,”  the man says with a crooked grin.  “They call me Hawkeye, because I have the eyes of a hawk.”

“Because you can look at someone and instantly know all their measurements?”  Bucky guesses, noting the tape measure draped around his neck.

“No.”  Clint looks at him strangely.  “Cause I have the highest archery score in the county.”

Natasha gets this spark in her eye.  Bucky remembers the stiletto knife she carries around in her purse, and suddenly he wants nothing more to do with this conversation.  She look over Clint from the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head. “My friend needs a tux,” she says in a significantly warmer tone.  Oh, Natasha likes what she sees.

Clint gets a panicked look in his eye.  “I don’t actually work here, I’m covering my friend’s shift.”  He glances at Bucky. “But I saw a green thing on the racks back over there, it’d go nice with the whole Wicked Witch of the West thing you’ve got going on.”

Natasha perks up, just as Bucky frowns.  “Wicked Witch of the—”

“Thank you,”  she sing-songs, dragging Bucky off.  They locate the suit in short time. It’s a green thing, all right.  It’s the only green thing in the whole store, by the looks of it. “Minty,”  Natasha says. “Perfect.”

“Wicked Witch of the West?”  Bucky asks, poking at the green suit.  “Is that a Jewish slur? Because now I have to fight him.  For my Jewish honor.”

“I’m sure Elphaba is non-denominational,”  Natasha says unconvincingly.

“Actually, I believe the predominant religion for witches—at least of European descent—is Wiccan.”  Becca pops up out of nowhere, scaring Bucky half to the death. “Nice suit,” she adds.

“It wasn’t a Jewish slur.”  Natasha rolls her eyes. “You have a smear of green paint on your chin.  You fucked around backstage while the set painters were working, didn’t you?”

Bucky rubs at his chin mournfully, feeling paint flake off.  He didn’t even notice it was there. “I needed to talk to Peter about my costume, but he wasn’t in the atelier.”

“Did you find him backstage?”

“No, but—”

“Idiot.”  Natasha sighs.  She takes the suit off the rack, and shoves it at Bucky.  “Try this on, Rebecca and I will find you a tie and boutonnière.”

“Nothing hipstery, or too ‘fetch,’”  he warns Becca.

“Oh my god.”  Becca pushes him towards the changing rooms.  “You’re such a dork, I’m embarrassed for you and your future spawn.”

“ _Your_ future spawned niece or nephew,”  Bucky reminds her.

He’s nearly out of earshot when he hears Becca say,  “Don’t think I’ve missed that there’s been a heck of a lot of minty stuff on my Instagram feed lately, courtesy of one blond putz.  I know what you’re doing, and I’ll be the first to tell you that I’ve tried, oh boy have I tried. They’re both thicker than blocks of wood, and twice as dense.”

“Don't worry,”  Natasha says, her voice dripping with mischief.  “We’re doing it the Russian way.”

Bucky walks faster, just so he doesn't accidentally find out what that is and regret knowing for the rest of his days.

Bucky emerges from the dressing room a few minutes later to Clint's wolf whistle.  Natasha tsks when he tugs at the collar uncomfortably, and he drops his hand sheepishly.  He can dance in tights that conform to every crevice on his body, including his buttcheeks, but it seems a suit is still beyond him.

Becca tucks a thistle and rose boutonnière into his front pocket, then drapes a grey tie around his neck.

“You look good, loser.”  She adjusts the tie tight enough to choke off his air.

“Thanks, shrimp,”  he huffs.

***

A Bentley sits on the curb outside his house.  Bucky squints at it as he climbs up the steps to his apartment, Becca following behind him.  There’s a woman sitting in the driver's seat, wearing what appears to be a leather police cap straight out of porn, and white gloves.  She isn’t paying any attention to them, instead looking at her phone without a care in the world.

“Either that’s a chauffeur, or someone bought you a very expensive stripper,”  Becca remarks, grinning widely.

“Is nowhere safe from gentrification?”  Bucky mutters under his breath, unlocking his door.  If his rent goes up because some chauffeured, rich guy wants to live among the ‘bohemians’ he’s going to key that Bentley, and key it deep.

Becca kicks off her shoes, and flicks on the light.  She stops abruptly, and Bucky runs right into her. “Oh wow, plot twist.  Turns out she’s the chauffeur to the very expensive stripper.”

“What?”  Bucky shoulders past Becca, and his eyes nearly pop out of his skull.

Loki sits on his couch, nay, Loki is draped over his couch like he’s fucking Cleopatra freshly rolled out of her carpet.  He wears thigh high leather boots, vinyl booty shorts, and a mesh tank, all accentuated with a pastel pink fur coat. Bucky’s tries to cover Becca’s eyes, but she just bats his hand away.  Those are his _nipples_.  Bucky regrets everything.

“What the ever living fuck, Loki?”  Bucky dumps his garment bag on the ground with a heavy sigh.  Becca glares at him. She picks it up, shakes it out, and hangs it from his coat stand.  “The hell are you doing here?”

“You know this guy?”  Becca kicks aside Loki’s sprawled leg so she can perch on the couch arm.  Loki, to his credit, accommodates her. He doesn’t even blink.

“He’s a friend.”  Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, tapping his foot.  “Who apparently doesn’t know the definition of boundaries.”

“Your door was unlocked,”  Loki says.

Bucky tries to channel his ma’s scalding disappointment the best he can.  “I’m sure it was. Since when do you have a chauffeur?”

Loki smiles.  “Her name is Topaz, she’s The Grandmaster’s man.”

Bucky narrows his eyes.  “His man, or his _man_?”

“Sure,”  Loki says examining his nails.

“Ooo, who’s The Grandmaster?”  Becca asks, poking Loki in the shoulder.  “Sounds kinky.”

Loki flashes her a sharp grin.  “Wouldn’t you like to know, little girl.”

“Alright, that’s enough corrupting my impressionable, young sister.  Go away, Becca.”

She shakes her head, wagging her finger back and forth.  “Nuh uh. You owe me the big bucks, or I'll tell Steve you're making time with strippers behind his back.”

Bucky flushes all the way up to his ears.  He stammers, “He's not a strip— like Steve will care anyway— go on, get.”  He makes a shooing gesture at her.

“You'd be surprised,”  Becca sing-songs. She hops off the couch.  Holding out her hand, she wiggled her fingers.

Sighing, Bucky pulls out his wallet and hands her a ten.  She raises her brows, and wiggles her digits some more. “Do you think I'm made of money?”  He grumbles, slapping a twenty into her hand. “I have debts.”

“Boo hoo, don’t we all.  Welcome to this economy.”  She grins, tucking the money into her back pocket.  “Nice to meetcha Loki. By the way, _are_ you a stripper?”

“Oh my god.”  Bucky drops his head in his hands.  “Becca, you can’t just ask people if they’re a stripper!”

Loki twists a curl of long hair around his finger.  Coyly, he says, “Sometimes.”

Becca giggles, a hand over her mouth.  “That’s sweet. I don’t know how you met my brother, but you seem too cool to be hanging out with him.”

“Thanks, Becca,”  Bucky deadpans. Loki smirks like the asshole he is.

Turning on her heel, she slips on her shoes.  Jupiter jumps down from god knows where and weaves in between her feet, meowing.  Becca bends and scoops her up, letting Jupiter bat her head against her chin, purring up a storm.

“I’m gonna take her for a walk,”  Becca declares, even though Jupiter does just fine walking herself.  Indoors, because she’s an indoor cat.

“Don’t let her loose,”  Bucky warns, “I don’t want her decimating the local bird population.”

“Don’t worry, I got her something.”  Becca opens the coat closet. Rummaging around, she pulls out a cat harness.  Bucky’s eyes bug out of his skull when, with just a little bit of coaxing, Jupiter steps into it, buckles clicking.  The leash dangles between her and Becca, and her tail points straight up in the air, unbothered. If Bucky attempted to wrangle Jupiter into a harness, she would scratch his face off, and then bite him for good measure.

“We’ve been practicing,”  Becca says.

“For two days?  Is that thing made of catnip?”

Becca rolls her eyes.  “Don’t hate because she likes me better.”  One last wave, and she’s out the door, taking along his traitorous cat.

“Why are you here?”  Bucky asks Loki only after he hears the slap slap of Becca's sneakers far down the steps.

“It was on the way,”  Loki says. To what, that requires him to dress the way he’s dressed, he does not specify.  “I have some news of import to share with you.”

Bucky sits on the edge of the coffee table, leaning forward, hands folded in his lap.  “What is it?”

“You know how I have a contact in the FBI?”  Bucky nods. “Well, he’s very talkative when he’s drunk.”

“I hope you haven't sent a fed to the hospital for alcohol poisoning,”  Bucky says, wry.

Loki waves away his concern.  “A motor vehicle examiner was brought in from Italy to look over the wreckage of Miss Carter’s car.  A puncture was found in the battery,” Loki says, shifting so his feet touch the floor, finally sitting properly.  Gone is the teasing air from before, gone is his familiar smirk. He’s deadly serious, and it has Bucky straightening in his seat.  “The contents came into contact with leaking coolant, and it caught fire soon after the car was started. It was made to look like an accident.”

“Yeah.”  Bucky ducks his head, nodding.  “I figured that much. I just didn’t know they confirmed it.  Steve’s not going to take it well.”

Loki shakes his head, lips pressed together.  “That’s the least of Mr. Rogers’ problems.”

Bucky frowns.  “What do you mean?”

Loki looks at him.  Holding him with intent eyes, like he wants to watch his reaction.  Loki’s talented at hiding away his emotions and studying people, it comes with his job.  And right now Bucky’s under his microscope. “Jack Rollins was murdered in Santa Barbara.”

“I know,”  Bucky says cautiously.  He has an itchy feeling that he knows where this is going.  “He worked with Steve, but he left the company long ago, before my time.”

“It was reported a mugging turned deadly,”  Loki explains, “And a homeless man was soon arrested after he pawned Mr. Rollins’ watch.  He claimed he found the watch, and a wallet lying in an alleyway, blocks away from where the body was eventually discovered.”

Bucky shrugs.  “That wasn’t in the article I read.”

Loki barely blinks.  “Yesterday, CCTV footage was uncovered of the suspect panhandling in front of a bank, alibing him for the time of the murder.”

“Loki?”  Bucky says, questioningly.

“The inspector who examined Abraham Erskine’s furnace found it to be in perfect working order.  There was no possible way it could have leaked carbon monoxide. His nurse claims that she opened his window before she finished her shift.  She’s certain of it, she said it was part of her nightly routine.”

“Shit, Loki…”  Bucky’s voice shakes.

“Erik Selvig’s car was abandoned in Los Padres, on a cliff off route 101.  The police believed that he jumped into the ocean. However, his dog was located in Big Sur.  One of the rangers found her scratching outside his cabin. Her tags had Mr. Selvig’s information on them.  Which leaves the question, why would Mr. Selvig drive six hours to Big Sur, abandon his dog, then turn around and drive three more hours to commit suicide?”

Bucky covers his mouth with his hands, tears pricking at his eyes.

“Wanda Maximoff regained consciousness a few days ago while in police protection.  She identified her attacker as male, muscled, and a foot taller than her. She did not see his face, nor did she hear him speak.”

“Wanda?”  Bucky says with a start.  “She’s alright?” His voice comes out hoarse, rough like a frayed rope.

“She’s fine,”  Loki says, “But the feds believe they have a serial killer on their hands.”

“A serial killer,”  Bucky echoes dumbly.

“There's such a thing as coincidence, and then there's this.  They already have a suspect. You.”

Bucky’s shakes his head.  He knew this was coming. He knew it when he spoke with Valkyrie in the club.  She thinks he did it, and now Loki does too. “I would _never_ ,”  he says, jaw tight.  “You have to believe me.”

“They have good reason to suspect you.”  His long thin fingers tap against his knee.  “It was between you, and Mr. Rogers, but he has an alibi.  He had performances and rehearsals scheduled during the time of the attacks.  You did not. Mr. Rogers is connected to all the victims in some way or the other, and the FBI believe you two are involved in an undisclosed relationship.”

Bucky opens his mouth, but Loki holds up a finger.

“Mr. Rogers was Sharon Carter’s dance partner, and there were rumours of an affair between them.  You could have been jealous. Abraham Erskine was Mr. Rogers’ former ballet master, and he encouraged his move to LA, far away from you.  That likely angered you. Mr. Rogers worked with Erik Selvig for years, and they shared the rights to dance pieces they collaborated on together.  You may have killed him so that Mr. Rogers could benefit from exclusive rights. Jack Rollins and Mr. Rogers had publicly feuded. You may have wanted revenge for him.”

“Wanda?”  Bucky says weakly, clutching his hands so tight his knuckles have turned white.  “I had no reason to hurt her. She probably even confirmed it when she was questioned.  I have no motive, no ill will towards her whatsoever.”

“She has feelings for Mr. Rogers.  A crush, she called it.”

Bucky scrunches up his face.  “Are you kidding me? No she doesn’t.”

“She confirmed it when she was questioned.”

He recalls the blush on her cheeks when she assumed that Bucky and Steve were dating.  He thought she was just embarrassed, but this sheds a new light on the conversation.

“Even if she did, that’s still no motive.  I didn’t know about it.”

“Says you.”  Loki sighs, and suddenly he looks so tired.  “I don’t think you understand, James. He posts more about you on social media than he does anyone else.  It’s widely assumed that the two of you are together. Many believe your relationship is not public because you are not officially out.”

“It isn’t anyone’s business what my sexual identity is,”  Bucky argues. “Steve may choose to share, but that’s his prerogative.  I’m not hiding anything, I’m not ashamed of myself. I don’t even make a big deal out of keeping it a secret.  It’s just a private thing, and I’m not big on sharing.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not how the world works, James.  That’s not how celebrity culture works. Mr. Rogers is a public figure, and public figures have no privacy in Los Angeles.”

Bucky fists his hands in his hair.  He can’t believe this is happening. “This is so crazy.  My alibi has to check out. I’m busy all the time.”

“Your company’s solicitor provided the police with your schedule over the last few months.  It did not present in your favour.” Loki pats him on the arm. _There, there_ , like he’s a child.  He’s trying to be comforting, but it isn’t working.  Bucky feels more anxious than ever. “When—and I’m saying when, because it is inevitable—the police feel confident enough to bring you in for questioning, if you have no alibi other than work, your lawyer is going to have a tough case on their hands.”

“A lack of an alibi is not proof of anything,”  Bucky says, but he isn’t sure of it. He knows absolutely nothing about law.

“It may as well be.”  Loki leans back with a shrug, his disaffected mask plastered on.

He’s acting like he doesn’t care that Bucky’s life is on the line.  He’s giving him a warning, but it’s all he’s getting. Loki probably figures that’s all he owes after two long years of friendship.  Bucky’s grateful—there’s no doubt about that—he just wishes Loki wasn’t so cold.

“In cases without physical evidence, and an active serial killer on the loose, law enforcement always gets antsy.  Always,” he says firmly. “They’ll have eyes and a tail on you. So watch your back.”


	12. snowdrops

## snowdrops

“Where’s M'Baku?”  Bucky asks, looking up at Bruce in the mirror.  He taps the fallout off his brush, and sweeps the nut brown shadow over his lids.  Fortunately, Bucky’s familiar enough with stage makeup that he can apply a smokey eye and talk at the same time.

Bruce grimaces, like he’s feeling under the weather.  His skin suffers from a greenish tint in the vanity lights.  “He tripped on some crap Tony’s people left in the hallway, and fell down the stairs ten minutes ago.”

Bucky pokes himself in the eye.   Wincing, he sets down the brush, snapping the palette shut with a click.  “Is he alright?”

“It’s only a twisted ankle, he’ll be fine in a few days.”  Bruce runs a shaking hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions.  “But he’s sitting out tonight’s performance.”

“I haven’t rehearsed the Oberon and Puck pas de deux with anyone but M'Baku,”  Bucky says, eyes wide. “Who’s replacing him? His understudy?”

“He’s stuck in traffic, he won’t make it in time.  Steve’s available.” Bruce's smile is like a frayed rope about to snap.  “I’ve seen you sit in on each other’s rehearsals. You must have seen his Oberon enough times to be familiar with it.”

“Yeah, but— but that’s not how it works,”  Bucky sputters, shocked. Steve’s Oberon is completely different from M’Baku’s.  Steve’s interpretation is dainty and sly, while M’Baku’s is strong and powerful. Bucky’s Puck was designed to fit with his partner, and his partner is M’Baku.  He can’t just switch between the two Pucks with the drop of a hat, no matter that he knows all versions of Peggy’s Midsummer like the back of his hand.

“You can do this, I know you can,”  Bruce says seriously. Turning his chair, he braces his hands on the arm rests, so that he's face to face with Bucky.  He looks around, as if to check that no one is listening in. Evidently he decides they’re alone because he whispers, “Nick went to Boston last week.  He has an eye on a dancer, and I heard from a friend on the board that he wants to make him an offer. We don’t have room in the company for another soloist, which means—”

“They are going to fire me,”  Bucky says blankly, leaning back in his chair.  He should have seen this coming from a mile away.  It’s so obvious that Fury wants to get rid of him. He thought it would pass, that Fury would just go back to ignoring him, but no, it seems he's determined to get his way.

Bruce shakes his head.  “No, no, the board is not sure.  Fury is asking for a lot.”

“Their no is purely financial, isn’t it?”  Something sharp-edged catches in Bucky’s throat.  He blinks rapidly, clenching his jaw. “They would have to pay me severance, then whatever it takes to get the new guy on board.”  Bucky shakes his head. “They’ll wait until the season is over, then they’ll listen to Fury.”

Bruce frowns, but his lips are a thin line of determination.  “You have to make yourself indispensable before then. Honestly, you are already, James.  The important people just need to see it.”

“I am?”  Bucky asks in surprise.

“Of course!  Your technique is brilliant, but your greatest advantage is what you have up here.”  Bruce taps the side of his head. “You know more choreography than any other dancer I know, and you pick it up like that.”  He snaps his fingers. “Tonight, a few board members are in the audience. Show them what you can do. Blow their socks off, prove to them that you’re worth more than some guy with half the repertoire.”

Board members in the audience, not to mention his family.  This is going to be a shit show if he screws it up.

“We can’t go on stage without rehearsing first,”  he gives a token protest, but he knows deep down that he can do this.  Despite all his worries, he has faith in himself, and he has faith in Steve.

Bruce puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, squeezing.  “Curtain rise is in an hour.”

“I’m going to fall on my face.”

“You’ll be fine.  You and Steve will be amazing.  You partner so well.” Bruce spins him back around.  With a shaking hand Bucky picks up his brush again. “I believe in you,”  Bruce says, patting him on the back encouragingly, “You won’t let this company down, and you won't let yourself down.”

For a long time after Bruce leaves, Bucky sits in his chair.  An unrecognizable man stares back at him from the mirror, horns peeking from braided hair, and a tunic of leaves and berries.  He’s not Bucky anymore. He’s Puck, the mischievous fae loyal to King Oberon. He needs to remember that. Bucky has a fucked up foot, and more anxiety than is healthy in a human being.  But Puck loves Oberon, and would do anything for him. He would do anything for the sake of mischief.

Bucky takes a few deep breaths, closes his eyes, and rises from his seat.

Steve waits in the wings.  For one long moment when Bucky looks at him, all he can see is the fantasy of Steve’s hot gaze on him, the caress of his hands on his skin.  Bucky’s cheeks flush, and blood boils hot in his veins. He cannot tell if it is the desire he feels for Steve, or if he’s channeling Puck’s devotion for Oberon.

Corps dancers in knee-length, gauzy tutus gather by the rosin box.  The crush of rosin under their pointe shoes as they grind it into a fine powder makes him think of a forest floor, leaves and moss crunching beneath his heels.  The orchestra plays the overture from Mendelssohn’s score, plucking strings meant to resemble the scampering of faerie feet.

The corps dancers rush onto the stage on demi-pointe; bobbing faeries with small, wired wings attached to the smalls of their backs.  Bucky goes to stand beside Steve.

“Are you ready?”  Steve whispers, smile soft.  Up close, Bucky can see each individual hair in his glued-down brows.  He can imagine him sitting in front of the mirror with a glue stick, then his brush, painting the dramatic green sweep up to his temples.  Bucky loves watching Steve put on his makeup, he’s sad to have missed it this time.

“Yeah,”  Bucky says helplessly, eyes darting to the swaying snowdrops over Steve’s forehead.

“You’re nervous,”  Steve observes. “Don’t be.  Just remember...” He wraps his hand around Bucky’s back, and spins him in the circle of his arms.  “...I’m your Oberon, and you’re my plucky little Puck.”

“My Oberon,”  Bucky echos quietly.  He lifts his hands and cups Steve’s jaw, bringing their mouths together in a kiss.  The music floats around them like magic, and the distant echo of thumping pointe shoes sound from the stage, but right now, it’s just them.  Bucky’s head spins. His knees go weak. Steve makes a noise deep in his chest, and his hand fists in Bucky’s costume, silk leaves crumpling beneath his fingers.  The snowdrops tickle his forehead, and Steve's staring right at him, his eyes like an endless ocean.

Someone giggles in the background, and in the far recesses of his mind Bucky recalls Loki’s warning. Everyone believes that they’re together, and that’s why the FBI suspects him. What Bucky’s doing right now, kissing Steve like he bloody well means it, sure as hell doesn’t help the argument that they aren’t.

Bucky breaks the kiss, hand dropping from Steve’s cheek to the bottom of his neck.  His pulse thrums like that of a startled rabbit. Bucky wants to kiss him there, he wants to kiss him all over.  He licks his lips instead.

art by [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183059627618/an-illustration-for-diminuendo-by-iamonlydancing)

“Bucky?”  Steve says breathlessly, trembling beneath his hands, his gaze darts from Bucky’s mouth to his eyes and back.

Bucky smiles sheepishly.  “Practice, for our pas de deux.”  He looks to the stage, then makes a shooing gesture at Steve.  “Go on, that’s your cue.”

“Right,”  Steve says, strangled, a dark flush spreading up from his sternum, all along the gap in his costume, contrasting sharply with the green he’s wearing.  He resembles a ripe tomato. Bucky should apologize, he doesn’t know what came over him. He’s afraid, but at the same time he could vibrate out of his shoes from elation.  Puck and Oberon share a kiss at the end of their first pas de deux, but they’re not on stage right now, there was no need for them to kiss.

He’s scraped raw, bare to the bone, but as he watches Steve walk onto the stage, blushing to the sun and back, Bucky can’t say he regrets it.

***

Bucky can't stop touching his mouth and smiling, like a teenage boy reminiscing over his first kiss.  Becca keeps sending him amused looks over the kitchen island, as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

The performance went without a hitch.  There was even a standing ovation at the end.  Bruce showed up in the dressing room with a brilliant grin, and reassurances that the board was beyond impressed.

Bucky's so ecstatic, he could jump out of his skin.  It isn't the praise so much as it’s satisfaction over a job well done.  There are no words that can explain the connection he felt with Steve on that stage.  They soared to the stars and beyond in each other's arms. Steve kissed him like he was precious during their pas de deux.  It wasn't just a stage kiss, it felt like so much more.

He can't wait until the Wednesday after the gala, when they are scheduled to perform _Afternoon of a Faun_.  Bucky wants to dance with Steve again and again, and he never wants to stop.

Bucky sniffs, wiping the moisture from his red, irritated eyes, grating the final potato.  His ma isn’t even tearing up, and she’s the one reducing the onions to a pile of smelly mush in the mixing bowl.  He doesn’t know how she does it, but Bucky suspects that the women in their family don't have tear ducts.

His ma tosses him a package of cheesecloths.  “Squeeze all the water out of those potatoes.”

Laughter sounds from the living room, and he glances over his shoulder to Steve and his da talking, beers in hand.  Jupiter’s curled up in his da’s lap, purring up a storm. Bucky stares at them enviously, the plastic crinkling in his hands.  Is it weird that he wants nothing more than for Steve to hold him again?

His ma whips the kitchen cloth, smacking him on the behind, and he jumps nearly a foot in the air.  She clicks her fingers right in front of his face. “Snap, snap, get to it.”

“It’s hopeless, ma,”  Becca says, spooning the applesauce, the sour cream, and the horseradish dip only Bucky likes into individual serving dishes.  “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

“He has to learn sometime,”  his ma says, grabbing the cheesecloths from his hands, she tears open the plastic, fishing out the cloths.  “I’m not going to be around forever.”

Bucky dumps the grated potatoes and onions onto the cloth, mumbling under his breath.

“What was that?”  His ma asks with narrowed eyes, biceps flexing as she squeezes all the excess water out of the bundle.  She doesn’t even strain with the effort. Bucky swears she has more upper body strength than he does, and he lifts human beings over his head for a living.

Becca grins devilishly.  “He said he buys latkes from the deli near work.”

His ma frowns deeply, the wrinkles on her forehead creasing.  Abruptly, she turns her back on him. Opening up the cupboard, she pulls out a cast iron skillet he’s pretty sure he didn’t own yesterday.  Knowing his ma, she probably bought just for the latkes.

“Traitor,”  Bucky mouths at Becca.  She sticks her tongue out.

Bucky puts a hand on his ma’s shoulder, but she shrugs him off.  Grabbing his avocado oil, she upends his entire bottle into the skillet.  “Ma. _Ma_.  C’mon, the deli latkes are not even that good.  Yours are so much better.” She turns the heat on, swirling the oil around for lack of something to do.  She still doesn’t look at him. Bucky wraps his arms around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her greying hair.  “Ma, please, forgive me for being a terrible son?”

“You’re not a terrible son,”  she finally clips. “You’re just a bad cook, and you’re not going to get better if you keep buying takeout.”

“It’s convenient,”  he says, kissing the side of her head.  “I don’t have time to cook.”

She elbows him off, then cracks a few eggs into the bowl with the potatoes and onions, mixing in a few other ingredients he doesn’t quite catch.  He has scans of his bubbe’s cookbooks on his laptop; the paper perpetually yellowed and crumbling at the edges. But he only ever looks at them when he’s feeling nostalgic.

She pushes the mixing bowl over to Becca, and she gleefully digs in with clean hands, squishing it together like a kid in a sandpit.

“If you want to eat right, you have to make time for it,”  she says sagely. Her boney fingers drag across his forehead, and she tucks away a strand of hair fallen from his ponytail.  “Don’t you cook for Steven?”

“Steve cooks for himself,”  Bucky says.

“Actually, I subscribe to a meal service.”  Steve enters the kitchen, two empty beer bottles in hand.  Bucky glances over to his da, finding him with his head back on the couch, dozing, a sleeping Jupiter in his lap.  Steve opens the cabinet and puts the bottles beneath the sink. “They do all the prep, I just have to add heat.”

Bucky’s ma looks at like Steve like he killed the family dog in front of her.  Bucky almost feels bad for her. When they were kids and Steve would come over for dinner, he was always eager to help out any way he could in the kitchen, whether it be prep work, or just keeping his ma company.  Bucky’s well aware that it was done more out of politeness than any real desire to cook. Sarah Rogers’ lessons in chivalry run far, and they run deep. Apparently his ma had greater aspirations for Steve.

She shakes off her disbelief, making Steve wash his hands.  She pushes him over to Becca to start forming the latkes. Bucky watches the two of them with narrowed eyes, but Becca doesn’t seem keen to put the moves on Steve.  Good to know. Her pre-teen crush on him was cringe worthy. Bucky would have been embarrassed for her, if it wasn’t so funny.

“Tell me,”  his ma says, dropping the latke balls into the hot oil.  She lets them cook for a bit, then flattens them down with the back of a spatula.  “Do you at least attend shul?”

“Yes, ma, I do.  Every Shabbos.”

“Does he, Steven?”  She asks, flipping the latkes.

“He does.”  Steve says wryly, nodding his head.

“That's my good boy,”  his ma says with a smile.  She attempts to hand him the spatula.  “Try flipping it.”

“I'm gonna burn the apartment down.  I'll never get my deposit back.” She pries opens his hand, forcing him to take the spatula.  “This is only gonna end in tears.” Bucky slides the spatula under the pancake. Bracing himself, he flips his wrist, and the pancake flies off the spatula, straight into the fire where it proceeds to burst into flames.

Quick as a whistle, his ma is there to fish it out with tongs, dumping the smouldering remains in the sink.  Bucky stares at her in accusation. She has the audacity to shrug her shoulders, flipping the other latkes without a single care.  “Rome wasn't built in a day.”

“It sure as hell burned in a day,”  he mutters.

Bucky's ma smiles, she pulls the latkes out of the skillet to drain on wire racks.  “These are done. Now who wants to wake up George?”

Bucky volunteers his services to get out of clean-up duty.  His da is a heavy sleeper, he always has been. When Bucky was a kid, he used to have the toughest time in the world trying to pry him out of bed on the weekends.  If Bucky—and Steve, if he stayed over the night before—wanted waffles for breakfast, it was a necessary chore that needed doing. Usually a knee to the spleen worked, when they would crawl all over him like little cockroaches.  Bucky's willing to admit that wasn't necessarily the kindest method to get the job done.

“Up and at ‘em, old man.”  Bucky clasps his hands on his da's shoulder, shaking him lightly.  Jupiter stirs, warbling like the disgruntled teenager she is. She curls up into a tighter ball, tail tucked over her face, then sinks her claws right into his da's thigh.

His da blinks awake, glasses sliding all the way down his nose.  He smacks his lips, saying quietly, “What's the time, Jamie?” He checks his own wrist watch without bothering to wait for Bucky's answer.  “Oh my, our flight is still a few hours away.” Bucky helps his da up, smiling when his nose twitches like a rabbit's, gray whiskers wiggling.  “What is that delightful smell? Could it be my beautiful wife?”

“Gross.  Marital affection,”  Becca says at the exact moment his ma puts her hands on her hips, exclaiming,  “I do not smell like fried potatoes, George Barnes!”

Bucky doesn't have a dining table, so his parents sit on the couch, plates balanced on their knees.  Bucky, Steve, and Becca curl up on the floor in front of the coffee table, the dipping sauces arranged halfway between all of them.

Becca keeps nudging the applesauce closer to herself, like she thinks no one’s noticed what she’s doing.  Steve spreads the horseradish dip on a pancake, but makes a face when he bites into it. He deposits the sad remains onto Bucky’s plate with a sheepish smile.  Every time they have latkes Steve _has_ to try Bucky's dip, but somehow keeps forgetting that he hates horseradish.

Bucky, on the other hand, loves it something silly.  He’s going to have to eat a light breakfast tomorrow morning because of all this fried food.  He’s missed this, he really has; family dinners with the Barnes clan, and Steve, because of course Steve is part of the family.  He's had a designated place setting at their dining room table in Brooklyn since he was five years old.

Steve spoons some applesauce on his latke, topping it off with a healthy dollop of sour cream.  He notices Bucky looking at him, and quirks a brow. “What? I got something on my face?” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, somehow smearing sour cream over his cheek.

“Steven, dear, when are you returning to Brooklyn to visit us?”  Bucky's ma asks. She picks up a napkin, then grabs Steve's chin, using the corner to wipe the cream from his face.

His skin pinks, and he ducks his head.  “I'd love to fly over whenever Bucky does.”  Steve looks at him, as if asking permission. He doesn't need to, his family is Steve's family.

His ma smiles.  “You hear that, James?  Now you have to come see us this summer.  Then I can check on your progress in the kitchen, _and_ see my two favourite boys again.”

“And you can meet my boyfriend, Devon,”  Becca says excitedly to Steve.

“What?  Don't I get to meet him, too?”  Bucky teases.

“You're right!”  Becca perks right up, an evil glint in her eye.  “We could go on a double date. Me and Devon, and you and Steve.”

“Becca!”  Bucky sputters, glancing at Steve, then at Becca, then back at Steve.  He must be redder than a toadstool.

Steve just shrugs, holding his fist out to Becca.  She bumps it, giving him a shy grin. “It's a date,”  he says, looking at Bucky with a great big pleased smile, radiating happiness like the sun.

Bucky is helpless to do anything but smile back.


	13. pas de deux

## pas de deux

The evening of the winter gala—the company’s largest fundraising event of the year—finds Bucky sprawled on the steps in front of his apartment complex, waiting for his ride to show up.

His gossipy neighbour, Miss Blossom Starlight, asked him to take down her recycling, and he had to oblige.  Afterall, she’s babysitting Jupiter for the night.

In the process of recycling disposal, Bucky had nearly spilled some unidentifiable trash sauce all over his suit.  He managed to dodge a bullet, and jumped back just in time. But some people need to stop being lazy, and rinse out their recyclables like they’re supposed to.   _Ehem, ehem_ , Miss Blossom Starlight.

Thankfully, Bucky won’t be the schmuck who shows up to the gala with dirt all over his front.  Still, knowing his luck, there will be a picture of a Kardashian or two on the cover of a gossip rag tomorrow, and he’ll be in the background doing something embarrassing.  Like picking his nose, or staring after Steve with hearts in his eyes.

Miss Blossom Starlight had slyly asked if she was to look after Jupiter through the night, into the morning.  Like an idiot Bucky had said, “oh god, yes please,” thinking he might have to nurse a drunk Steve if he has too much wine with dinner.  Like last year.

Only after he had left with her recycling did her meaning click in his thick skull, and by that time it was too late to go back.  Now, every retiree in Miss Starlight’s bridge, slash gossip group thinks he’s one slutty eager beaver.

Tapping one heather-grey loafer, he checks the time on his phone, then snaps a quick selfie.  It's just of his head and shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

His favourite lipstick still hasn’t turned up.  On his day off he had driven all the way to the Sephora in Beverly Hills to replace it, only to learn that the pink colour he liked had been discontinued.  Which just so happens to be the greatest tragedy in the world. It would have gone so well with the outfit.

He sends the picture off to Steve, and a minute later his phone pings.  Bucky grins when he opens a close-up of Steve rolling his eyes. For some reason the guy from the suit shop, Clint, is also in the frame.  He’s got Natasha's stiletto knife in hand, wielding it like it’s a fencing sword.

 **Careful** .  Bucky texts, inserting a knife emoji that he spends an entire minute searching for in the library.   **He's armed and dangerous**.

 **I'm more worried for the upholstery** .  Steve texts back.   **If we lose our deposit, I know who to blame**.

Bucky chuckles, curling over his phone as he texts back.   **I thought you were going with Natasha?  Did she ditch you for him?**

 **Ha ha, laugh it up** .  Three little dots appear at the bottom of the screen, and Steve adds,   **Yes, she did**.

Bucky laughs.   **Aww, poor baby**.

The text is marked received, but there’s no indication to show Steve typing.  In fact, there’s just a whole lot of nothing for exactly six minutes. Bucky counts, checking his phone every few seconds.  He’s about to give up, and spend the rest of his time counting the string lights their landlord wrapped around the courtyard palm trees, but his phone finally pings.  He nearly drops it when he reads the text.

**Give me a kiss, make me feel better?**

“Oh boy,”  Bucky whispers to himself.  Sweat beads on his forehead, and it has nothing to do with the heat.

He thought they were pretending that kiss never happened.  Steve hasn't even _mentioned_ Bucky macking on him, and it happened weeks ago.

Bucky opens the messaging app, but before he can type anything into it, a limo pulls up in front of his complex.  The back door opens and Clint sticks his head out. “Get in, loser, we're going shopping.”

“Wait, what?”  Bucky says blankly.  While Clint explains some reference that he missed during his teens, Bucky climbs into the limo, nervously settling in the space between Natasha and Steve.

Steve laughs, like he finds Bucky’s pop culture incompetence amusing.  He seems totally unaffected by his last text. Water under the bridge for good ole Stevie R.

“You clean up well, James,”  Natasha says, a flute of bubbly champagne in hand.  She points to the bottle, asking if he wants some. He shakes his head.

“So do you,”  he says back, and it isn't an understatement.  She wears a long, black dress that clings to her every curve, with a neckline of pearls that leaves the tops of her shoulders bare.  Clint's black suit would match perfectly if he hadn't tied his bow tie on a diagonal. It's charming, at least.

Steve though…  Steve looks out of this world.  He could be from the planet Neptune, for all that Bucky knows what to do with him.  His white shirt is starched to within an inch of its life, pleats uniformly straight.  His bow tie is the exact same white as his shirt, blending right in. His suit is a warm black with flecks of white scattered all over like stars in the night sky.  He's wearing his glasses, and his hair is brushed back from his face in an artful sweep. Distinguished, would be a correct description.

“Hi there,”  Steve says. Sending Bucky a private smile, he wraps a hand around his wrist.  “You look really good. Mint is a nice colour on you.”

Bucky swallows.  “Yeah. You look alright.”  He blinks, and realizes what he just said, backtracking.  “I mean…” He trails off. Telling Steve that he looks like a dream come true might be taking it too far.  His jaw clicks, and he shuts his mouth, figuring he's better off saying nothing at all.

Steve laughs like the little shit he is.  He rubs his thumb over Bucky's speeding pulse.  “Didn't you promise me something?”

Bucky just about swallows his tongue.  Okay, so they are talking about it.

“I didn't exactly get the chance.”

Steve tilts his head, grinning.  “Is that so?”

Before his courage flees him, Bucky leans in, pressing a quick kiss to Steve's mouth.  Cheers erupt, courtesy of Clint, but Bucky can't be bothered to look away from Steve.

“There,”  he says weakly.  Bucky thinks he's managing something like a smile.  “How's that?”

Steve ducks his head, uncharacteristically shy, but he's grinning, and blushing, and _urg_ , Bucky's going to die from his nauseating sweetness.

“ _So_ ,”  Natasha says slyly, drawing out the word, milking it for everything it’s got.  “Is this a thing now?”

“Is what a thing?”  Steve mumbles, leaning into Bucky’s side, cheeks still pink.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, shut up, Natasha.”  Bucky laughs, tucking Steve under his arm.  His smile grows even wider when Steve threads his fingers through the hand Bucky drapes from his shoulder.

“Hmm.”  She’s taken her knife back from Clint, and she closes it with a snap.

Bucky gestures to the knife.  “One day you’re going to stab someone’s eye out with that thing.”

“That’s what all the boys say.”  She finally slips it into her purse.

“What were you two doing anyway?”  Bucky asks curiously.

“She’s teaching me self defence,”  Clint pipes up, kicking his leg out, missing Steve’s nose by an inch.  “My landlord’s a dick,” he adds, as if that explains why he needs to learn whatever crazy soviet martial arts Natasha’s teaching him.

“Uh huh,”  Bucky says wryly, tugging Steve back in their seat, just in case Clint tries kicking again.

The limo rolls to a stop, and the driver comes on the intercom to inform them that they have arrived, and would they like him to open the door on account of the wall of paparazzi waiting for some big A-list movie star, not two A-list dancers, one B-list dancer, and the guy with the highest archery score in the county of Los Angeles?

“Yes please,”  all four of them say at once.

While the driver climbs out, circling the car, Bucky touches his hair, fiddling with it.

“It's going to be fine.”  Steve squeezes his hand. “I've got you.”

The door opens, and blinding flashes flood the interior.  Bucky blinks stars out of his vision, but Natasha climbs gracefully from the limo, a vision in three and a half inch stilettos.  Clint goes after her, practically using her as a human shield.

Bucky drops his arm from Steve's shoulder.  Before he can shift away so the paparazzi don't photograph them looking so cozy, Steve slips his other hand into Bucky's, helping him up.  By then the paparazzi have realized that they aren't the movie stars they're looking for. A few still hover, and they get damn good shots of Steve arranging Bucky's hand on his elbow, like he's his date.

Steve’s chivalry is going to kill him dead one of these days.  Bucky just knows he's going to spend all of tomorrow on Getty Images searching for those pictures.  He needs to remember this moment until the day he’s old and toothless. Steve treats him like he’s precious.  It isn’t the way you treat a friend. Bucky has friends, albeit a few, and he can’t imagine Loki ever holding his hand, or Natasha for that matter.

Sometimes, Bucky could easily believe that he’s the person Steve loves.

The limo drives off, and Bucky misses the shelter of it.  He left his car in the company parking lot a block away, which means no drinking tonight.  It's near impossible to catch a ride share after the gala ends.

It’s early in the evening, but the red carpet is already crowded with celebrities, patrons, and other dancers.  They’re all dressed to the nines: sparkles, satin and jewels abound. Steve smiles as they walk towards the theatre entrance, working the cameras like a pro.  Bucky, on the other hand, looks as awkward as he feels.

“How are you so confident?”  Bucky asks, leaning over to whisper in Steve’s ear.  Bucky’s always admired Steve's ability to give so few fucks about what people think.  That, and the fact that he can jump a battement en round in two counts without blinking an eye.

Steve shrugs, still waving for the cameras.  “I'm only about twenty percent confident at any given moment, Buck.  The rest is about thirty percent perpetual anxiety, and forty percent pissed off.  I just hide it well.”

Bucky blinks.  Steve, anxious?  “What about the other ten percent?”

“The other ten percent?”

“Yeah, you said twenty, thirty, and forty, that's ninety percent.  You're missing ten.”

“Huh,”  Steve says, chewing his lip.  He seems to ponder over Bucky’s point for a moment.  “I guess all that's left is apple pie.” He nods decidedly.  “I am structurally ten percent apple pie. Or, I’m just craving a slice right about now.”

Bucky can see how he would reach that conclusion.  Steve is as all-American beefcake as it gets in the looks department, not to mention his birthday is on the fourth of July.  Apple pie doesn’t seem too far of a stretch.

“Makes sense.”

Steve grins at him.  His eyes crinkle in the corners, doing something that should be illegal to Bucky’s heart.  “See, I love that about you. You _get_ me.”

“Yeah, well,”  Bucky scratches the back of his head sheepishly,  “I’ve had twenty plus years experience.”

The theatre lobby has been decorated to within an inch of its life.  It's already a big space with ceilings that stretch five stories tall, and a floor long enough to fit an entire New York subway train with room to spare.  It’s part of a larger complex of buildings that the ballet shares with the philharmonic, two opera companies, several performing arts schools, and a few theatrical companies.

Imposing mylar cutouts of Greek statues reach nearly all the way up to the crystal chandeliers; purple wisteria hanging from their chains.  Giant green and white floral arrangements sit on the centers of the round dining tables, contained in amphorae even taller than Steve. It's exactly what he expected, knowing that this year’s theme was ancient Greece.

The head gala chair stands at the podium.  A celebrity made famous by a series of action flicks in the 90s, she now dedicates much of her spare time towards raising money for the ballet.  Before she got involved tickets to the event were in the mid hundreds. Now, the minimum these Hollywood schmucks have to pay is one thousand dollars for some cocktail sauce with recently defrosted shrimp.  The really pricey tickets get them a dinner seat at Fury's table, though Bucky can't imagine why anyone would want to pay ten grand for the pleasure of his acerbic company.

In the end it's all about status.  If someone can afford to shell out a few grand for a night out, they've made it in Tinseltown.   _Rich people_.

Bucky and Steve find their seats at one of the nicer table locations.  Luckily enough the principals and soloists are given free tickets. Kind of.  He's pretty sure the dancers are considered part of the decor. If they can convince some wealthy old man to donate a huge sum of money, they pay their own way.  It all feels very greasy to Bucky, but it needs to happen in order to keep the ballet afloat. Especially when the government can be so fickle with arts funding.

Bucky dips a shrimp in cocktail sauce, popping it into his mouth as Steve schmoozes with an older producer and her younger wife.  Her much, _much_ younger wife.

Bucky tunes them out, focused intently on people watching.  M'Baku and Okoye are seated a few tables away, scaring the ever living crap out of their table mates.  M'Baku examines his nails with a casual flair, while Okoye sits ramrod straight, twirling her butter knife.  The tiny nervous man next to M'Baku leans away as far as he can, without actually falling out of his seat. At Okoye’s side, a guy Bucky recognizes as a polluting oil executive from a few news cycles ago seems to have sweated through his jacket.

A table over finds Peggy Carter herself, a smile on her vampy red lips as she speaks with the head of music staff, Gabe Jones.  He’s looking at her like the sun shines out of her ass, and to be fair, she seems just as enamoured of him.

“Bucky is very interested in diversity in arts programming.”

“Huh?”  Bucky says, turning back to Steve.  Steve, who has apparently been talking about him with a little amused smile on his lips.  “Um, I mean, yeah.”

The producer goes on to explain a project she's in the early stages of developing.  It’s a movie based on a book with a queer protagonist, and some critical things to say about colonialism.  Bucky gets into a heated discussion with her wife about casting choices, as the courses arrive one after the other.  It's easily the most interesting conversation he's had at one of these events, and it came right out of the blue. Well, not out of the blue.  He has Steve to thank. Bucky would have kept to himself if it wasn't for him.

He ends up with the producer's number, and an invite to have dinner again, just the four of them.  “A double date,” the producer says with a sly grin. Bucky blushes to high heaven, but Steve accepts on his behalf.

“You didn’t have to help me like that, y’know,”  Bucky says as they shuffle over to the theatre for the first performance of the night.  “But thanks for doing it anyway.”

“Geez, Buck, it's not exactly a hardship.”

“Yeah?”  Bucky says softly, wondrously.  He turns around to face Steve as the crowd stops, caught in a bottleneck.

Steve's eyes sparkle.  “Yeah.”

The evening is going so well, of course something has to come along and fuck it up.  More specifically, someone.

He spots her over Steve's shoulder.  At first he can't believe what he's seeing.  There's no way she could have bought a ticket on a fed's salary.  Someone from the company must have given it to her. Then again, Bucky has no idea how much a federal employee makes.

Special Agent Valkyrie stares right at him, like she plans on digging a pickaxe into his brain.  She's not even shy about how much she hates him. Bucky is unmoored, cut adrift. His pleasant mood vanishes in an instant, and he clutches at Steve's sleeve, wrinkling the fabric.

“What's wrong?”  Steve asks worriedly.

“I need to get out of here,”  Bucky croaks.

“Okay,”  Steve says simply, long before he spots Valkyrie.  When he finally does see her, he doesn't ask for an explanation.  He trusts Bucky, and Bucky trusts him. “Let's go.”

He takes Bucky by the hand, and pulls him from the crowd, back the way they came.  Steve's strides are long and quick, and Bucky matches him for all he's got. Bucky throws a quick glance over his shoulder, and sees Valkyrie pushing her way out of the crowd.  If she wasn’t following them before, she sure is now.

Turning a corner or two, Bucky hopes Steve’s knowledge of the theatre’s floor plan wins over her dogged determination.

Speeding past a series of costume storage closets, Bucky runs straight into someone as a door opens.

“Sweet mother goddess,”  Loki exclaims, a hand to his chest,  “Are you trying to steamroll over me, James?”

“Bucky?”  Steve says curiously when Bucky bounces back, hitting his chest.  Steve’s hands come up to wrap around his biceps.

“Loki,”  Bucky hisses,  “I need a distraction.”

Another man peers around Loki.  Grey-haired, and quirky as humanly possible, Bucky recognizes him as Loki's boyfriend, slash benefactor, slash regular shag.   Bucky has met him a few times after performances. He's a big donor to the company; even has his signature engraved on a plaque in the theatre.  Bucky's pretty sure his name is Jeff, though Loki calls him _The Grandmaster_ so often, he doesn’t know what to think.

Loki, to his credit, catches on quickly because he shoves Steve and Bucky in through the door he just came out of, closing it behind them.  Surrounded by tutu after gauzy tutu, Bucky doesn’t want to think about what Loki and _The Grandmaster_ were doing in here all by themselves.   _Jewels_ will never be the same again.  A dull thump comes from the other side of the door, followed by a loud moan and the rustling of fabric.

“Jesus,”  Steve whispers.  “Are they...?” He makes a telling gesture with his hands.  Bucky purses his lips.

Another thump, a screeching like nails on a chalkboard, and the noise cuts off.  Rapid murmuring followers, then the cadence of a third voice. Valkyrie. Bucky holds his breath.  He puts his ear to the door, but he can only make out a bit of what Loki says in return.

“—it's Friggason, not Od—”  More angry murmurs, then, “No, we didn't see anyone, we were busy.”

Someone stomps off, and a few moments later a rumpled Loki cracks open the door.  “The coast is clear, and you owe me a million favors.”

“Send me a bill,”  Bucky says, relieved.

In the company parking lot, Steve leans against the side of Bucky's car.  “Who is that guy?”

“Short version or long version?”  Bucky unlocks the doors, climbing in.

“Whatever version you're comfortable giving.”

Bucky smiles to himself, sticking his key into the ignition.  “Loki was a one night stand, now he's a good friend. He’s the PI that warned me about the creep stalking you.”

“He seems like an interesting character,”  Steve says with a crooked smile, bucking his seat belt.  “Not exactly your type.”

“And you'd know my type so well, Steven Grant Rogers?”  Bucky teases, pulling out of the lot.

“I sure hope so,”  he thinks he hears Steve say.

***

They get apple pie at a gas station just off the freeway.  Bucky was going to stop at a McDonalds in order to satisfy Steve’s craving, but then he spotted a sign advertising fresh California apple pie, and took that exit instead.  It’s a quaint little place: a gas station and Googie diner in one, straight out of the mid-century, blinking neon signs and all.

The remains of twilight paint the horizon in streaks of pink, but the night has largely taken over.  They’re parked under the buzzing diner sign, flooding the car in blues and reds.

With the seat pushed back, and one leg up on Bucky's dash, Steve finishes his slice, brushing the crumbs out of the car like a proper gentleman.  He’s a vision. His suit jacket is tossed in the backseat with Bucky’s, bowtie loose around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The lights reflect off Steve's glasses.  Bucky can't see his eyes.

“How many times do I have to tell you, get your leg off my dash,”  Bucky smacks Steve’s knee with a balled up napkin.

“Yeah, yeah,”  Steve grumbles, but he drops the leg.

The diner blasts 80s love ballads, and Steve hums along, fingers drumming on the arm rest.  When the first few notes of an oddly appropriate Elton John song plays, Steve perks right up.

“I love this one!”  he exclaims happily, then, like someone lit a fire under his ass, he pops open the car door, climbing out.  Circling around to the driver’s side, he holds out his hand for Bucky. “Dance with me?”

Bucky gapes at him, paused in the middle of wiping crumbs from his mouth.  “What?”

Steve sways his hips to the music, like a middle-aged dad in mom jeans.  “C’mon, get jiggy with me, tiny dancer.”

Bucky laughs.  “I don’t have my dancing shoes.”  Steve takes that for the yes that it is, and he opens Bucky’s door.  Wrapping his hands around his wrists, he pulls Bucky up and out. He nearly steps on Steve’s wingtips.

Steve wraps an arm around his waist, steading him.   “You’re not wearing blue jeans, but you’re still my baby.”  He grins widely, spinning Bucky around, clasping their left hands together.

“Cute,”  Bucky snarks, shrieking a little as Steve dips him low in a circle before bringing him up again.

“Hmm, prettied-eyed, and your pirate smile is notorious if I do say so myself,”  Steve says, leading them around in tiny circles.

“Oh no, I’m exactly Bernie Taupin’s type,”  Bucky jokes.

“I’d better watch out.”  Steve pulls him closer. “Wouldn’t want to lose you to a music man.”

Bucky snorts, shaking his head.  He wraps an arm around his shoulder, tucking his red face in Steve’s neck.  The neon reflects off the oily tarmac, making it look like a deep stretch of ocean.  Through the diner window a waitress wipes down the table in front of a sleeping trucker, his hat pulled over his eyes.  The music changes a few times, but Bucky still hangs on to Steve, losing himself to the moment.

“Have I ever told you how happy you make me?”  Steve asks, after they’ve been swaying together for some time.

“You don’t need to tell me that, honey.  I know,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve pulls back so he can look him right in the eye, sincerity pouring from him in waves.  “You do, though, you make me so happy.”

Bucky plays with a curl of hair at Steve’s nape.  “Ditto.”

Steve leans in, and his kiss is soft.  His hands come up and hold Bucky’s face all gentle, like he’s the most precious thing in the world.  Bucky makes a muffled noise in his throat, but all he can think is, _I’m not allowed to have this_.

He drops his arm, and pushes Steve away, breaking the kiss, breaking all points of contact between them except for his hands on Steve’s chest.

“I can’t have just a physical relationship with you,”  he says in a desperate rush. “I can’t do it.”

“Okay?”  Steve says questioningly, glasses askew.  His hands fall to his side, and he steps away, putting some distance between them.  “I’m sorry I kissed you without asking.”

“We can't do that again.”  Bucky shakes his head, brow furrowing.  “It's unfair to you, me, and the person you're in love with.”

Something like hope floods over Steve's face, and his body relaxes in increments.  His hands come up to wrap around Bucky's forearms, gentle enough that he could break away if he really wanted to.  Bucky doesn’t want to. “Okay,” Steve nods. “Tell me, who do you think I'm in love with?”

Bucky shrugs, once, a reluctant thing that speaks for how much he’d rather not be having this conversation, but Steve is firm and unrelenting as he always is.

“Bucky?”

“I don’t know.”  Bucky looks down at his feet.  “You never told me.” He doesn’t mean to make it sound like an accusation, but that’s exactly how it comes out.

“It's you, Bucky.”  Steve shakes his head, chuckling under his breath.  He pushes his glasses back into place. “It's always been you.”

Bucky gawks at Steve like he's recently grown a second head.

“Well?”  Steve says nervously.  “Are you going to say anything?”

Bucky swallows a few times, throat dry.  Eventually, he croaks, “You are the most frustrating, magnificent, gorgeous asshole I've ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

“You weave such beautiful poetry,”  Steve says, wry.

“Come here, you.”  Bucky grabs Steve by both ends of his bow tie, reeling him in.

art by [ewlyn](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183102039968/here-is-my-second-piece-of-artwork-for-diminuendo)

***

Bucky flies through the entrance to Steve's condo building, Steve right at his heels.  Giggling, he dives for the elevator call button, pressing it a few times.

Warmth soaks into his bones as Steve plasters himself all along his back.  He pushes aside Bucky's hair, nibbling at his ear, and Bucky tilts his head, letting him.  Steve’s warm breath puffs on his cheeks, and his hands rest on his hips, fingers digging in.  He thinks he might plotz at any moment.

His mouth drops open just as the elevator does, and he stumbles in, dragging Steve after him.

Bucky presses Steve up against the mirrored wall, a hand on his chest.  Steve stares at him, disheveled, starched shirt crumpled to high heaven, lips red like candy.  God, he still tastes like fucking apple pie. Bucky dives in for another kiss. Steve moans, loud and proud, scratching at Bucky’s scalp with his nails, fingers fisted in his hair.

“You can pull my hair, I like it,”  Bucky informs him, voice rough. Steve groans, a deep rumbling in his chest.  “Just don’t yank, there’s enough bald men in my family.”

Steve laughs, looking at him with blatant adoration in his eyes.  Bucky doesn’t know quite what to do with that, so he brings their mouths together again.

He starts trailing kisses down Steve’s neck, but a blink of red in the mirror distracts him from the task at hand.  Focusing on it finds a camera staring right back at them. A camera, oh god, a _camera_.  Faster than the speed of light, he jumps away from Steve who sinks a few inches now that Bucky isn’t holding him up anymore.

“Huh?”  Steve says, dazed and rumpled, like he was mauled by a particularly affectionate bear.

“Camera!”  Bucky whisper-yells, pointing to the big black hunk of plastic hanging from the elevator ceiling.

Steve’s head thumps against the mirror, and he licks his lips.  His voice is rougher than sandpaper when he says, “They’re only recording, there’s no security guy behind the camera getting his rocks off.”  He tries to hook his fingers in Bucky’s waistband, but he steps back, out of reach. Steve rolls his eyes. “C’mon, they only check footage if there’s been an incident.”

“An incident?!”  Bucky exclaims, adjusting his clothes, glancing back at the camera nervously.  “Like me getting caught with my hand down your pants?”

Steve gives him burning come hither eyes, and Bucky has to make an effort to avoid melting into a puddle of goo.  “You were about to stick your hand down my pants?”

“That’s what you get from this?  Twenty-nine years old, and you want to make your first sex tape?  Security could sell it for a million bucks.”

Steve laughs.  “This is Hollywood, sex tapes are a dime a dozen.”  He blows his hair off his face, batting his lashes. “Besides, it wouldn’t be my first.”  Bucky’s jaw drops to the floor. “And before you ask, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“I’m going to bite you, you absolutely infuriating dick,”  Bucky promises in a whisper.

“Mmh, yeah.”  Steve throws his head back, closing his eyes.  “Talk dirty to me.” Steve cracks one eye open.  “If you were planning on getting us somewhere private, you’re going to have to actually press the button for my floor.”

Bucky feels himself turning red in embarrassment.  He whirls around to the panel, and yeah, he didn’t do the number one thing a person is supposed to do in a elevator.  He blames Steve, he’s a damn fine distraction. Pressing the right button, the elevator jerks to life, ascending slowly.  He supposes he should be grateful that no one called for it while they were still in the lobby.

Arms wrap around his waist, and a chin lands on his shoulder.  “Don’t be mad at me.” Steve kisses behind his ear, nudging... oh god, _nuzzling_ the shell of his ear with his nose.  “Pretty please, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad at you,”  Bucky mumbles as Steve peppers kisses all over the skin he can reach.

“Okay.”  Steve nips his earlobe, making him shiver.  Combing Bucky’s hair with his fingers, he brushes it to the front, kissing the top knob of his spine.  “Bucky?”

“Yes?”  He says shakily.

“Do you want to sleep with me, Bucky?”

“What, can’t say ‘sex,’ Rogers?”  Bucky teases weakly.

Without missing a beat Steve grins against his skin.  “Do you want to have toe-curling sex with me, baby?”

Admittedly, Bucky’s toes do curl right then and there.

When the elevator opens to Steve’s floor, Bucky bodily hauls him through, marching him right to his door.  He pats down Steve’s pants, pulling out his keys. Shoving it into the lock, he pushes the door open. Steve laughs at his impatience, but it quickly dissolves into a groan when Bucky slams the door shut after them, pushing Steve right up against it.  He loses the keys, dropping them with a click to the tile, but he can’t be bothered. He has Steve right where he wants him; his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, digging divots into his skin with fingernails.

Bucky unbuckles Steve’s belt with one hand.  Ripping open the button to his pants, he does what was promised.  He shoves his hand down Steve’s pants, grunting when the zipper stops him from going any further.  Sheepishly, he withdraws his hand, then pulls down the zipper all the way.

When his palm touches hot, hard flesh, Bucky’s head thumps against Steve’s collar.  Steve breathes heavily against his ear, standing all the way up on his tippy toes. He makes little hurt noises in his throat, and Bucky never wants him stop.

Steve’s fingers wrap around his wrist, making Bucky pause in his ministrations.  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says huskily, “I love everything you’re doing here but… it’s a bit dry?”

“Shit,”  he hisses, dropping Steve’s dick like it’s a hot potato.  It bobs bravely, flushed pinker than his ears when he's embarrassed.  “I’m sorry.”

Steve smiles softly, tucking Bucky’s hair behind his ear.  He drops his thumb to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, stroking along his smile lines.  “It’s okay. Sex is always awkward the first time you have it with someone. It will get better.”

If Bucky wasn’t already aware that Steve wanted to keep doing this, he now knows for sure.  He wants to give Steve everything he’s got, and maybe convince him that awkward doesn’t mean it won’t be fun.

He shifts his head, and licks Steve’s thumb.  “I could kiss it better, if you’d like?”

Steve goes at bit cross-eyed, like he’s picturing all the ways Bucky could do exactly that.

Bucky takes him by the hand and pulls him past the kitchen into the carpeted den.  No tile to screw up Bucky's knees, that's for sure.

Steve's condo is open concept.  Floor to ceiling windows, with screens to hide the bedroom.  It's modern minimalist, all sharp lines and white walls. It even has an electric fireplace.  But that isn't what makes it feel like a home. Steve has added his own personal touches to the space.  There's a climbing bookcase filled to the brim with second hand novels, spines bent, pages yellowed with time.  Beside the bookcase sits an ugly-as-sin brocade armchair that just so happens to be the most comfortable thing in the universe.  Above it hangs a garishly extravagant Chinese takeout calendar, tacked with a pushpin, dates circled.

Steve has little knick knacks scattered all over, the kind of stuff a real estate agent would finagle into storage before trying to sell the place.  He inherited quite a few porcelain clowns from his ma. They’re ugly things, in Bucky’s opinion, but Steve loves them regardless.

A framed picture of them sits on the coffee table.  It was taken when they were kids, their arms thrown over each other's shoulders.  Steve's missing a front tooth, but he's grinning. Instead of looking at the camera, a pink-cheeked Bucky stares at Steve like he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.  Six year old him sure knew what was up.

Steve notices where he's looking, and he wraps his arms around him in a hug.  “If that blond menace could see me now,” Steve says, kissing the hollow of Bucky's cheek.

He has the strangest feeling that Steve isn’t talking about his successful career.

“You sap.”  Bucky glances down.  “Your dick is still hanging out, kind of ruins the moment.”

Steve gives him a scorching smile.  “What are you going to do about it?”

Bucky huffs out a laugh.  Pushing on Steve’s chest, he falls back onto the armchair, half startled, half eager as hell.  Bucky wants to straddle and kiss the shit out of him, but he has a promise to fulfill. He sinks to his knees, and Steve lets out a little breath, an exhale like a gentle ocean breeze.

Steve’s pretty dick is out there in the open, but Bucky doesn’t focus on it right away.  He has patience, they both can wait. Instead, he runs the flats of his hands up and down Steve’s thighs, feeling the strong muscles underneath, tight with anticipation.  Laying his head on Steve’s knee, he breathes in the scent of lemonly detergent, nuzzling the soft fabric.

“Do you and my pants need a room?”  Steve asks, voice breathy.

“Oh, we’re just getting started.”  Bucky sits up, grabbing for the waistband of Steve’s pants, yanking them down along with his belt, his underwear, everything.  Helpfully, Steve lifts his butt, and it isn’t much of a hassle. Once they’re tossed right across the room, Steve relaxes in the chair, legs spread wide, hot as burning in just a half-buttoned shirt.  Bucky gets right down to business.

Bucky peppers kisses up one thigh, and then the other; flirting anticipation.  Steve seems to appreciate it, going by the way his fingers dig into the upholstery.  Wetting his lips, Bucky finally presses a kiss to the tip of Steve’s dick. Watching for a reaction, he grabs the base, and spreads his lips over the head, slowly sinking down.

Steve’s mouth falls open, and he stares down at Bucky through heavy eyes.  His stomach shifts with every breath he takes, and Bucky briefly pulls off so he can unbutton Steve’s shirt the rest of the way, spreading him open, flayed for the world to see.  Bucky holds him in the palm of his hand like an offering, and licks from base to tip over and over again. Steve doesn’t make a single sound, like all the wind has been knocked right out of him.

It’s been a long time since he’s blown anyone, half a year at the very least.  The ache in his jaw is a familiar one, and he relishes in it. The taste in his mouth is something new, however, and while it isn’t exactly pleasant, it’s not that bad.  They aren’t using a condom, and a small voice in the back of his head is yelling at him for that stupid decision. He’s never gone without protection during sex. The girls he slept with were always smart, he never had to ask.  But if a guy tried to make an excuse about not wearing one, Bucky always told him to fuck off. No excuses.

The thing is, Bucky trusts Steve.  He trusts him more than he trusts himself.  He trusts him more than he trusts anyone in the entire world.  Steve would have told him if he needed to wear protection.

He sinks down on Steve, lips spread wide.  Unbidden, moisture collects in his eyes. Steve’s thumb comes up, caressing his cheekbone.  Bucky swallows around him, and when that first tear falls, Steve’s there to catch it.

Steve slides his wet thumb into his mouth, and Bucky groans.

His eyes are wild, pupils so dilated he looks like he’s stoned out of his mind.  He scratches the tips of his fingers through Bucky’s hair. He trails the palm of his hand down his cheek.  He holds Bucky close to him, curls over him, petting him like he’s precious.

He tugs on Bucky’s hair, whispering a warning, but Bucky doesn’t pull off.  He closes his eyes when Steve comes, happily taking everything he’s given. When Steve pulls him up into his lap, unbuttoning his pants, spitting into his hand, Bucky kisses him, and keeps kissing him long after he comes in Steve’s grip.

Panting, coming down from that brilliant high, he drops his head to Steve’s shoulder, pressing his lips to his bare neck.  Steve runs a big, soothing hand up and down his back, sighing happily.

Bucky looks out of the window behind them, the city lights twinkling like stars in his eyes.  He feels dazed, high as a kite on love, and can’t really believe this isn’t all a dream.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, in Steve’s arms.


	14. the nymph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, if you're reading this as it's posted you should go back and check out the last chapter, ewlyn just added some art (of a kiss!), and it's very, very pretty.

## the nymph

Bucky wakes to a whisper of minty fresh breath tickling the side of his face.  The bed dips under a weight, and he cracks one eye open just in time for Steve to kiss his cheek.  He warbles softly into Bucky's ear, a half assed attempt at singing, “ _Good mornin' starshine, the earth says hello.._.”

Bucky groans, pulling the blankets over his head.

“ _...you twinkle above us_ ,”  Steve continues, horribly out of tune.

“I’ll twinkle you below,”  Bucky grumbles, finally pushing the blankets away, his hair a mess of static electricity.  He blinks up at Steve who… oh wow… who's only wearing a pair of boxer briefs and Bucky's button up from last night.  Steve reaches over the bed, and presses a button on the wall. The Roman shades slowly roll up, flooding the bedroom in the soft morning light, giving Bucky an impressive, unobstructed view of his assets.  Bucky rolls onto his side, making sure to look his fill.

He regrets absolutely nothing.  He supposes that the worst thing about the best night of his life is that he's going to have to look Miss Blossom Starlight in the eye and know that she was right.  Bucky _is_ a slutty eager beaver.  But at least he's a slutty eager beaver in love.

“Hello, beautiful.”  Steve beams, climbing over the blankets to sit beside him.  Bucky shifts over, making room. He can't take his eyes off Steve.  His hair falls in his face a little, and Bucky itches to push it back.  “Wanna make out a little?”

“I have to brush my teeth,”  he says softly, wondrously.

“Okay.”  Steve grins, stretching back on the bed, hands behind his head, ankles crossed.  “I'll be right here waiting, don't be long.”

Bucky slips out of bed, toes sinking into the high pile rug stretching from one end of the bedroom to the other.  Ducking around the screen that separates the bedroom from the rest of the condo, he slides open the bathroom door.

When Rumlow occupied the condo he used to leave all his grooming shit on the counter.  Bucky knows it bothered Steve to no end, but he never said a thing. He’s a tidy guy, no matter that his definition of tidy is somewhat eclectic.  Steve has a lot of stuff in his bathroom—soaps, lotions, face-masks, weird gadgets, ten step Korean skincare regimens, et cetera—but it’s all organized in his vanity’s many drawers.  The only things that have a permanent place on the counter is the necessities: hand soap, toothpaste, and a toothbrush holder.

Bucky takes a piss, washes his hands, and finds his toothbrush in the holder.  He sleeps over at the condo only every few months. Steve’s more likely to crash at his place, on account of Jupiter being a megalomaniac incapable of feeding herself, or scooping her own poop.  Regardless, Bucky's toothbrush is always waiting for him on Steve's counter—forever red to Steve’s blue. It never gets relegated to a drawer.

He supposes that should have been a big clue about Steve’s feelings.  Bucky is one oblivious bastard.

He sets about scrubbing the taste of death from his mouth.  The toothpaste foams, making him look like a rabid dog, and he pokes at the contents of Steve’s graveyard drawer: the place where stuff he doesn't use goes to die a slow death.  Bucky puzzles over what appears to be a usb connectable razor, among other useless things. He’s pretty sure that all this shit is Steve’s way of reclaiming agency. Rumlow was a dirtbag in many, more obvious ways, but the fact that he manipulated Steve into tiptoeing around his own space was a gross violation in and of itself.

Washing his face, Bucky attempts to finger comb his hair back into a semblance of tidiness, rubbing a palm over the scratchy stubble on his chin.

Steve's still where Bucky left him, except now a bottle of lube sits innocuously on his bedside table.

“I don't mean to be presumptuous,”  Steve says breathily, a hand in his underwear.

Bucky leans against the dresser, watching.  “I like it when you're presumptuous.”

Steve smiles, a vibrant thing that sets Bucky's heart aflutter.  He’s lost the shirt, and his knee is bent, legs spread wide. “I figure we have at least an hour before we have to go to work.”  Steve toes aside the edge of the blanket, welcoming.

“We still have to eat breakfast, then warm up, honey,”  Bucky says, melting when Steve's eyes soften at the endearment.  “I'd say we have at least thirty minutes.” He walks to the edge of the bed, climbing right into Steve's lap, settling on his thighs.  Arms come up around him, holding him tight. “That long enough for you?”

Steve shakes his head.  “Not nearly, but it will have to do.”

“We should probably talk about what we’re doing,”  Bucky says, reaching down, feeling up Steve through his underwear.  He must be aching by now. “With us, I mean, not just the sex.” Bucky’s hand moves north, exploring the expanse of skin laid out in front of him, running his fingers through the hair on Steve’s lower stomach.

“I thought I was clear, Bucky,”  Steve says, breath hitching, “I love you.  I’ve been stupid in love with you for a long time now.  I want us to be in a relationship.”

Bucky ducks his head, pressing his mouth right to Steve’s.  His thumbs find the sharp angles under his jaw, and he holds him steady, kissing him deeply and thoroughly, tongue insistent.  He wants to memorize this moment, he never wants to forget the taste of Steve in his mouth. Minty fresh, and fuck, Bucky wants to feed him apple pie and kiss him all over again.

“I want that too,”  Bucky says, pulling back with one final, lingering kiss.  He leans his forehead on Steve’s, looking right into his eyes.  “I love you, I’m not just _in_ love with you.  You’ve been my best friend since we were kids, and this?”  He gestures between the two of them. “This isn’t going to change that, no matter what.”

Steve chews his lip, but he doesn’t look away.  “If we do this, you need to understand that I’m monogamous in my relationships, and I’d expect the same from you.”

“That isn’t going to be a problem,”  Bucky says assuredly, and he knows it with every fibre of his being.

“I’ve been called clingy,”  Steve says with such unexpected self-deprecation that something hard and bitter catches in Bucky’s throat,  “I’m not going to change.”

Bucky would love to sock whomever the fuck thought Steve’s loving, innate devotion was something to put down.  It should be celebrated. Bucky’s been rejoicing in it for as long as they’ve been friends.

He grasps Steve by the back of the neck, kissing his nose, peppering kisses all over his face.  “I love that about you, I love that about you so much. You’re always there for me, through thick and thin, how could I not love you for it?”  A patchy blush starts up on Steve’s cheeks, but Bucky can’t stop. “During my lowest moment, you opened your home to me, until I could get back on my feet in this city.  You took care of me when I was a mess to be around, even when you had your own shit to deal with. You stuck around, you stuck with me though all my bullshit. Fuck, Stevie, yeah you’re clingy, but I fail to see how that’s a bad thing.”

“Jesus, Buck.”

Bucky wraps his arms around Steve, holding him tight.  “After work I'd love to take you out on a date. Are you free?”

“Jesus, Buck,”  Steve repeats, clinging just as tight.  “Yeah, I'm free.”

“Good, ‘cause I'm going to romance the shit out of you.  You'd better be ready.” Bucky pushes Steve until he falls back on the pillows with a soft sound.  He shifts down, settling on Steve's thighs, hands on his gorgeous chest. One day he's going to take his sweet time pulling Steve apart piece by piece.  Today, he has something else in mind.

Steve's palms come to rest on the tops of his hips.  He looks up at Bucky, red lips, lashes fluttering. If looks could kill, Steve might just give him a heart attack.

Bucky adjusts himself in his underwear, and Steve's eyes drop from his face.  “Hand me the lube,” Bucky requests. Immediately, Steve picks up the tube and deposits it in Bucky’s waiting hand.  When his hands returns to Bucky, he pushes up his shirt, touching bare skin. His hands don’t stop wandering, as Bucky cracks open the cap, warming a dollop of cherry flavoured lube in his hand.  He tosses the tube to the end of the bed, and it rolls right off the edge.

Watching Steve’s every expression, Bucky pulls down his own underwear, wrapping a hand around himself.  He hisses, practically vibrating with pleasure. He watches Steve’s mouth, the pink smear of his lips as they fall open in a quiet gasp.  Fingers tighten on his skin as Bucky strokes himself the way he likes. He gives Steve a show, arching his back, licking his lips. He leans back, bracing a hand just above Steve’s knee, rolling his hips in counterpart with the movements of his hand.

“Come up here,”  Steve growls, grabbing him by the ass, hauling him up.  Bucky falls forward with a surprised yelp, hands coming down to support himself on either side of Steve’s head.

Bucky blinks down at Steve, startled.  “Hey,” he says, just a little bit disgruntled,  “I had plans for you.”

“And I’m sure they were fantastic, brilliant, inspired plans,”  Steve says. He shifts down the bed, hair sticking up with static.  Bucky tries to follow him with his eyes, but he can only make out the top of his blonde head.  “But I want to reward your favour from last night.”

“I don’t need to be rewarded for something I enjoyed so thoroughly,”  Bucky says weakly.

“Humour me.”  Steve grabs his pillow, taking it with him.  His head ends up somewhere near the location of Bucky’s belly button, and the implications of that are not lost on him.  “Is this okay?”

“More than okay,”  Bucky squeaks. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, and they flutter all over the bed.

Steve kisses his stomach.  “You might want to grab onto something.”

“Wow, so bossy,”  Bucky snarks, but he wraps his fingers around the headboard anyway, holding on for dear life.

“I hope you like bossy,”  Steve says, pressing another kiss to his stomach, further down this time,  “Because that’s another thing that isn’t going to change.”

Bucky’s heart swells, and he grins.  “What do you know? I do like—” Whatever he was about to say cuts off, and he voice goes strangled.  His nails dig into the wood, and his gaze goes right out the window as the hot velvet of Steve’s mouth surrounds him.  His own expression in the window’s reflection is startled; open mouth, surprised eyes. He groans, and closes his eyes when Steve’s nails dig divots into his ass, pulling him forward, deeper into his mouth.

His knees kiss Steve’s shoulders, boxing him in with his entire body, and Bucky reaches down, sinking his fingers into cornsilk fine hair as Steve’s head bobs up and down.

“Stevie, you’re gonna kill your neck,”  Bucky pleads.

Steve rumbles around him, and he bites his tongue to suppress a truly embarrassing noise.

He can’t imagine what he tastes like to Steve, but he hopes the cherry lube has overpowered a full night of sleeping on his front.  Steve seems to like it anyway, going by the way he slaps Bucky’s ass, making him jerk, oh god, jerk his hips so his cock goes right down his throat.  His eyes roll back in his head, and he tugs on Steve’s hair in warning, practically pulling him off his dick. Steve makes a disgruntled noise when his lips pop free, then one of surprise, as Bucky comes all over his face.

Immediately, Bucky slides down Steve’s body, holding his head in his hands.  He kisses his cheeks, his eyelids, his nose, anywhere he can reach, ignoring the bitter taste of his come on Steve’s face.  Steve giggles, arms going around him, hands locking at the small of his back.

“Give me a minute,”  Bucky eventually says against Steve’s swollen mouth, worn out beyond belief.  “Then I’ll do you.”

Steve laughs, face still shiny.  “No need. Turns out I have a very specific kink, and it’s you nearly shooting off in my eye.”

“Don’t even joke.  Come in the eye is about the worst thing in the world.”  Bucky says sagely as he collapses bodily on top of Steve, who lets out a little ‘oof.’  And yeah, Steve’s underwear is wet against his leg. In a few minutes it’ll be cold and wet, which just won’t do.  He could probably convince Steve to grab a shower with him if he claimed it would save time, even though he’s well aware it would do the exact opposite.  No one ever takes a shower with another person to _save time_.  That’s just a thinly veiled excuse, if anything.

Bucky rolls off Steve, lying flat on his back, hands clasped behind his neck, basking in the afterglow.

“I dunno, Buck.”  Steve turns on his side, arm bent under his head  He spreads a hand over Bucky’s lower stomach, looking at him with dark eyes.  Bucky’s dick makes a valiant attempt to get hard again when Steve bends to give him a sweet, lingering kiss.  “I think come in the ear is even worse.”

Bucky looks at Steve quizzically, brushing his hair off his face.  “Do I want to know?”

Steve shrugs jovily.  “I told you, sex is awkward, accidents happen, and sometimes people fire the gun when your head is turned because you thought you heard your ma opening the front door.”

Bucky laughs.  Wiping tears out of his eyes, he says,  “God, I love you so much.”

Steve gathers him up in his arms, ruffling his hair.  “The feeling is very mutual.”

***

“He makes you happy,”  his ma says over the phone.

Not ‘does he make you happy?’  Not ‘are you happy with him?’ It's an observation, one she's been making for years.  Steve Rogers makes Bucky Barnes happier than a kid in a candy shop, and that's a fact.  Their relationship is new, but she didn’t sound even remotely surprised when he told her.

“He does.”  Bucky twirls an imaginary phone cord around his finger, like a teenager waxing poetic about his crush.  “I like to think I make him happy too.”

He studies his reflection in the mirror, adjusting his shirt collar.  He has a date with Steve in a few minutes, their first one, not counting apple pie at the Googie diner, even though Bucky definitely does.  He puts his ma on speakerphone, and gets to work braiding his hair.

He doesn’t tell her this, but it’s easy being with Steve, like it’s never been easy with anyone else before.  Steve is familiar. It’s only been a day, but dating him is like going for a walk in the park. It’s what being in a relationship is supposed to be like.  It’s the closeness their friendship has always afforded them, with the added benefit of kisses that set Bucky on fire.

“James, that boy thinks the world of you.  I know you will treat each other the way you both deserve.”

They chat for a few minutes longer while Bucky works on his makeup.  He carefully lines his eyes as she informs him that Becca has taken over her school’s model UN committee, to the long-suffering ire of all her teachers.  Bucky humours his ma, but secretly cheers Becca on for sticking it to the man.

Eventually, his ma lets him get back to his sprucing, and promises to give the rest of the family his love.

Moments after she hangs up, Bucky hears the familiar tread of shoes coming up his stairs.  He can’t stop himself from grinning. The front door opens, and Steve calls out a greeting.  Footsteps echo along the floor, a quiet knock to the bathroom door, and it opens the rest of the way.

Bucky looks up in the mirror, swiping excess mascara off the wand in long strokes.  He smiles at Steve.

“You look beautiful,”  Steve says, leaning against the door jamb, watching Bucky get ready, sweeping the wand over his lashes.  Steve doesn’t look so bad himself. In fact, he's downright gorgeous.

Bucky echoes the sentiment back to him, putting his makeup away.  He turns around, walking straight into Steve’s arms for a kiss, happier than he’s ever been before.  After he pulls back, Steve slips his hand into Bucky’s. “Shall we?”

***

Around the time that Bucky and Steve ditched the gala, the tickets to their _Afternoon of a Faun_ performance sold out in one unprecedented hour.  It probably broke a few records, considering it usually takes a week for all _The Nutcracker_ shows to sell out.  Then again, the studio Fury allocated to them seats a maximum of one hundred and fifty people, compared to the theatre’s two thousand.

Usually, the ballet attracts a crowd in their early forties to late fifties.  But according to the data collected by the ticketing agency, the majority of seats to _Afternoon of a Faun_ were purchased using student discounts.

It confuses him, until the morning of Natasha’s _Afternoon of a Faun_ opening.

At breakfast Steve shows him a list of news articles a mile long.  The company is all over social media. _Teen Vogue_ is calling Steve a queer icon, Natasha a feminist revolutionary, and Peggy a visionary.  Bucky's just along for the ride.

At rehearsal he sits beside Peggy, as Natasha and Steve dance with each other.  Natasha is a glorious nymph; coy and powerful, she draws in Steve’s faun, seducing him, until he’s wide-eyed and panting.

The first time he saw Natasha dance, Steve had bought them tickets for the company’s rendition of _Anastasia_.  The pain and anguish she brought to the lead role had him on the edge of his seat.  She’s always been amazing at conveying her characters’ emotions. Even now, her dancing is so different from his.

Bucky’s nymph is relatively typical.  The only thing interesting about her is that he’s a male dancing a female role.  He doesn’t do anything to masculize the role. It is what it is, and what it is, is a novelty.

Natasha’s nymph is a powerhouse.  She is what a nymph should be; she is the sun, the moon, and the wind.  She is nature personified, and all the faun can do in the face of her is hold on to his horses.

Peggy doesn’t even have anything to say, she just watches them, a finger tapping against her chin.  Bucky rubs his foot the way the physio showed him, and wonders how the hell his nymph is supposed to hold up during tomorrow’s performance after _this_.

That night, Bucky shows up at the box office and buys one of the few remaining tickets.  He ends up having to shell out a hundred bucks for amphitheatre seats, since the two giggly teenagers in front of him manage to snag the last ten dollar upper slip tickets before he could get his paws on them.  The upper slip view is partially blocked by the proscenium arch, but at least he would have had gas money for the rest of the week. He hates LA public transit.

One of the teenagers evidently recognizes him, because her jaw drops, and she practically yanks her friend’s arm out of its socket.  They ask for a photo, and are ernest enough that Bucky’s happy to give them one. He even manages to smile, though he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with his newfound celebrity.  That’s always been Steve’s specialty, never his.

Bucky finds his seat.  It’s so high up in the amphitheatre he’s looking down on the heads of those with orchestra seats.  At least the view is good when the curtain rises.

Natasha’s _Afternoon of a Faun_ is part of a mixed programme.  It’s too short to be shown on its own, at only ten minutes long, but Bucky’s well aware that everyone who bought a ticket for tonight, bought one specifically to see her and Steve.

Bucky settles in to watch the show.

Debussy’s score is familiar.  He’s been hearing it for months; playing in his dreams, in his car as he drives to work, as he hikes through the Hollywood hills.  The opening flutes hum, the harps thrum, and the curtains rise to Steve spread on the faun’s mound. He lays in front of a beautifully painted backdrop, copied verbatim from Léon Bakst’s original stage design.  They won’t have the backdrop tomorrow, just their costumes, two pianists, and a smaller version of the faun’s mound. Bucky hopes it’s enough to capture the magic. He hopes Steve won’t be disappointed.

After the curtains fall, Bucky swipes his access card to get backstage, and waits for Steve in the wings.  He doesn’t have to wait long. Steve brightens when he sees him, hair still wet from the shower. He picks Bucky up bodily, and spins him around, kissing his cheek.

“I can’t wait to dance this with you tomorrow,”  he whispers into Bucky’s ear, holding him tight. Bucky clings to him, wondering how he always knows exactly what to say.

art by [ewlyn](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183108189993/the-third-and-fourth-artwork-for-diminuendo-by)

***

Fiddling with the smock protecting his costume, Bucky tries not to sneeze as Peter sprays gold paint all over his hair.  Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Steve outline his lashes in kohl, smudging the makeup like an oil slick.

When Peter finishes, he disappears to get the faun’s mound rolled into the studio.  Unfortunately, Tony shows up only a few moments later with the flower wreath, jamming it on top of his head with a dramatic ‘ta da!’  He starts pinning it, not even apologizing when he sticks Bucky’s scalp with a pin or two.

“You’re a sadist, Tony Stark,”  Bucky grumbles, wincing.

“You just realised?”  Another jab, and he feels like a pincushion.  Tony whips the smock off, revealing Bucky’s costume beneath.  Only his belt is missing, and Tony stares his waist, eyes nearly bugging out of his skull.  “Jesus tapdancing Christ!” He exclaims, clutching at his hair, rushing out of the dressing room.  Tony Stark, ladies and gentlemen, never does anything by halves.

Bucky glances over at Steve, and finds his ears and headdress affixed, bronzer and highlighter giving his skin a sun-kissed glow.  Steve meets his eye, and wolf whistles. Bucky blushes, flipping him the finger. He reaches across the dressing room table for his makeup pouch, pulling out his plum blush.

“You’re using the blush,”  Steve remarks.

“You suggested it.”  Bucky smiles, dabbing it on the apples of his cheeks.  He grabs a darker shade of lipstick to match, blotting the excess.

“I can’t believe you remember that.”  Steve grins, picking up the setting spray, letting loose a cloud of the stuff all over his makeup.

“I remember everything you say to me,”  Bucky says, brushing away the fallout from under his eyes before grabbing the spray from Steve.

Steve sits quietly for the next few moments, but Bucky can practically hear the gears in his brain churning.  When Steve next opens his mouth, he says something that has Bucky fumbling, dropping his makeup pouch, “After we blow everyone’s minds out there, want to come back to mine and screw me silly against the kitchen sink?”

“What the hell, Steve!”  Bucky yelps, diving for his pouch.  He’s already sweating, and he’s only wearing a see-through sheet of a dress.  “Sure,” he mutters, crouched on the floor, heart beating a mile a minute.

“Great!  It’s a date.”  Steve grins wolfishly.  “I’d kiss you, but I don’t want to ruin your makeup.”

“Right.”  Bucky climbs to his feet, brushing imaginary dust off his costume, pretending he isn’t disappointed.  He loves Steve’s kisses. “Wouldn't want that.”

Bucky turns to set his pouch back on the counter, but jumps nearly a foot in the air when Steve grabs a firm handful of his ass.

“Steven Grant Rogers!”  Bucky exclaims, swatting him.  “You dog.”

Steve shrugs his shoulders, all _aw shucks_.  Bucky narrows his eyes.  He doesn’t believe the act for one moment.

Someone clears their throat, and Bucky looks up in mortified horror at an eggplant purple Peter clutching the missing belt.  “I am _so_ sorry to interrupt,”  he states, examining the ceiling like he finds the stained panels particularly interesting.  He can’t even look Bucky in the eye.

Taking pity on him, Bucky accepts the belt.  “Don’t worry, I can put it on myself.” Peter runs off with his tail between his legs, and Bucky sighs, sending Steve an exasperated look.  He has the decency to shrug sheepishly.

Bucky wraps the belt around his waist, securing the clip, so that the gold cicada attached to the end dangles near his hip.  He rubs his thumb over it, admiring the craftsmanship.

“Ready?”  Steve asks, wrapping his hand around Bucky’s.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They warm up as the audience files into the main studio.  Bucky can hear them from behind the door to the adjourning room.

“They sound excited,”  Steve whispers, leg up on the barre, matching Bucky, arm for arm, leg for leg.

“They can’t wait to see you,”  Bucky whispers back.

Steve shakes his head.  “They can’t wait to see us.”

And by god, Steve is right.  The audience stands, clapping up a storm as they walk into the studio, he even hears a few cheers.  It’s indescribable, what that does for his confidence.

Peggy holds onto a microphone, her other hand extended as she introduces herself, Steve and Bucky, then the pianists; one at a grand piano, the other at a harmonium older than Fury himself.  She goes on to explain a bit of history about the ballet, Nijinsky’s intentions when he made it, and with a sly smile, the scandal it caused when it debuted. The audience seem enraptured, and Bucky takes the opportunity to examine them.

The seats—bleachers, really, when it comes down to it—are completely full.  There are even a few people standing by the back wall. That only happens when there’s a big enough line at the box office that it cracks the manager’s near impervious heart.  Enough for her to start selling standing room tickets. There are no private boxes in the studio, and the seats are all priced the same. It restores his faith in humanity to see a patron draped from head to toe in designer evening wear rubbing elbows with a college student who looks like they’re skipping out on some well deserved zees to be here.

Natasha sits in the front row, and when he catches her eye, she nods back at him.  He feels an overwhelming desire to do justice by her nymph, to to make her proud. This is going to be a brilliant show.  Bucky just knows it.

The lights dim, plunging the studio in darkness, except for the moonlight shining through the giant skylight.  Steve squeezes his hand once, then moves to his cue, while Bucky goes to his.

The harmonium plays, and if Bucky closes his eyes, he can almost picture three flutists in its place.  He sways, taking a deep breath, and then another one. Centering himself, he finds the character, he finds his nymph, and breathes life into her.

A spotlight shines down on Steve, illuminating him as he relaxes on the faun’s mound, a flute in hand.  His eyes are closed, and he throws his head back, putting his lips to the reed. Bucky studies his form: the nymph’s interest piqued.  The faun is a picture of contrasts, a hard muscular body, and a soft, sleepy disposition. Until he isn’t.

The other pianist cuts in, and the faun awakens fully.  His gaze meets Bucky’s from across the studio, and he abruptly flips on his front, animalesque in his moments.  Steve’s eyes never leave his as he wraps his hand around the bunch of grapes at his waist. Uncliping it, he bring it over his head, squeezing it firm, muscles bunching.  Imaginary juice wets the faun’s parched mouth. He rubs the grapes down the front of his body in a long, sinuous stroke. Then he tosses them aside...

The nymph licks her lips.

...and the faun stands.

The nymph pads onto the stage, and Bucky’s bare feet make not a sound against the vinyl floor.  The lights grow in intensity as he steps on demi-pointe, the nymph’s dress floating around his ankles like a spring breeze.   _Afternoon of a Faun_ is all sharp angles and stylisation, except when it isn’t.  There are always little moments for the humanity of the dancers shine through, and that is what the audience latches onto.

When the faun starts down the mound steps, someone takes a deep breath.  When the nymph stretches her arm out, drawing in the faun, a heel clicks against the floor.  When the faun strides closer, choosing to glide right past the nymph, a gasp sounds. Bucky and Steve have the audience wrapped around their fingers, plucking at them like fiddle strings.

The nymph moves around the faun, head tilted to the side, studying the interesting creature before her.  She is introspective in her desire, while the faun is eager. He is energetic, and he _wants_ .  He wants her so bad, but the nymph does not give in.  This courtship is on her terms, and she will have him.  By the dust beneath her feet, by the wind in her lungs, she _will_ have this creature that intrigues her so, but it will be by her reckoning.

Steve leaps behind him, a grand jeté that takes Bucky’s breath away, and stops the nymph in her tracks.

Bucky lifts his hand, and Steve locks arms with him.  His skin slides with sweat, and Bucky stares deep into his eyes.  This is the moment the nymph and faun succumb to each other, but Steve succumbed a long time ago, didn’t he?  All these years, and he never noticed the way Steve looks at him. Bucky’s lip quirks so only Steve can see. He’s noticing now.

Bucky reels Steve in, close enough that they stand pressed together, chest to chest, hands still clasped.  The faun draws the nymph up to his mound, and she goes willingly. She’s the pull of the moon on the tides, the whisper of breath in the trees, and the faun is captivated by her.  He is grateful that she’s allowing him this moment. He lays her down, gently but passionately, following after. She wraps her legs around the faun’s hips, throwing her head back.  They move together, their lovemaking dream-like and hazy. The faun is wide-eyed in surprise. He is naive, and the nymph takes pity on him. She shows him what to do, and what he loses to inexperience, he makes up in sheer enthusiasm.

As the final passage plays, the faun rolls his body in a dramatic show of pleasure.  The nymph gasps in ecstacy. The music quiets in a gradual diminuendo, and the studio falls to silence.

The lights dim to black, and Steve climbs off of him.  The moon is bright enough that Bucky can see the joyful glee in his eyes, see him mouth three little words that mean so much.  Steve holds out both of his hands for Bucky, and grinning wildly, he takes them, letting Steve pull him to his feet. Together they walk down the mound’s steps.

The studio floods with light, and Bucky blinks stars out of his vision.  Like a dam breaking, thundering applause rings out, filling the room in an absolute cacophony.  The pianists bow, then gesture to Steve and Bucky. The applause grows even louder. People stand up and whistle, a few stomp their feet, and Bucky is overwhelmed.  He looks to Natasha, and she gives him a brilliant smile.

Peggy hands are clasped under her chin, and she looks on the verge of tears.  Bucky knows, right then and there, that he did the role justice. If Fury doesn’t schedule another performance he might have a riot on his hands, or at least a very angry Peggy.

He feels like he’s dancing on air, so many emotions churning within him.  He can’t stop smiling.

The doors to the studio slam open.

At first Bucky thinks he’s hallucinating, because there’s no reasonable explanation for cops in tactical vests to be storming inside.  It’s only when the screaming starts, and Steve pulls him in close, wrapping his arms around him that he realizes this might be real. With his face pressed right against Steve’s neck, he can’t see a thing.

“Calm down, there is no reason to panic,”  an authoritative voice announces, “You are not in any danger.”  Steve just squeezes him tighter.

“What’s going on?”  Bucky whispers.

“I don’t know,”  Steve says back, “The FBI are here.”

“Fuck, why?”  Bucky hisses. The noise in the room quiets substantially, and Bucky grabs Steve’s elbow, managing to wiggle enough out of his grip that he can see what’s going on.

Special Agent Valkyrie stands with her thumbs hooked in her belt, for once not wearing that damn suit.  Her tactical vest has a big, fat FBI printed over the front of it. Cops dressed from head to toe in black surround her, pointing their guns at the floor, but angled right at him and Steve.

Valkyrie looks at him with something like relief in her eyes.

“James Buchanan Barnes,”  she says, a smile playing on her lips.  The cat that caught the canary. She unfolds a sheet of paper from her pant pocket, holding it up to the light.  “I have here a warrant for your arrest, you sick sonofabitch.”

art by [ewlyn](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183108189993/the-third-and-fourth-artwork-for-diminuendo-by)


	15. ball and chain

## ball and chain

art by [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183128549253/an-illustration-for-diminuendo-by-iamonlydancing)

There isn't much he can do while cuffed to a stainless steel table in a room that smells overwhelmingly of stale coffee, except be unbelievably bored.  He's tired. His eyelids are so heavy they're practically super glued shut, but he’s also so wired he can't relax enough to actually get some sleep. It's unnerving, but he can feel them watching him through the mirror, like an itch he can’t scratch.

He’s been alone in this interrogation room for hours without any end in sight.  The clock above the door must be slow because time is practically crawling. At this point, he’s pretty sure they just like watching him sweat.  There’s a patch in the wall behind the door that looks like it’s been repaired so many times paint will no longer stick to it. Bucky fixates on it, wondering how much force it must take, and how angry someone would have to be, to punch a door handle right through drywall.

Just when he’s just about ready to pop, the door opens with a click, and Special Agent Odinson walks in, a sheepish smile on his face, two steaming mugs in hand.

“Who are you supposed to be,”  Bucky says tiredly, lifting his head from the table,  “The good cop?”

“You could say that,”  Odinson says, setting a cup of milky coffee in front of his cuffed hands.  Bucky eyes it warily, and doesn’t make a move to touch it. Odinson sits in the creaking chair on the other side of the table.  Legs crossed, the picture of ease. He takes a long drag from his mug. “You should take it easy, you've had a long day.”

Bucky scoffs.  “I wonder why.”

“How’s the fit?”  Odinson gestures to the shackles around his wrists.  “Comfortable?”

How condescending.  He’s acting like Bucky can choose to have them loosened.  Bucky glares at him, mouth a thin line of displeasure. He’s in no mood to play around.  He passed mad an hour back. Right now, he's around hurricane levels of pissed off.

“I have asked for my lawyer about a million times, but for some reason Mr. Murdock has yet to materialize, I wonder what’s keeping him?”  Bucky spits out, bleeding sarcasm.

“Is it the sugar?”

Bucky blinks.  “What?”

“Do you not take sugar in your coffee?”  Odinson says, infuriatingly casual.

Bucky slams a fist against the table.  “Where's my _fucking_ lawyer?!”  He snarls, a sharp pain shooting up his arm.  He almost immediately regrets the outburst, curling over his hurt hand.

To Odinson's credit, he doesn't flinch.  He sets down his coffee with a quiet click on the table.  Relaxing back in his chair, he rests his interwoven hands on his stomach.  “Valkyrie?”

Someone knocks on the two way mirror, then a few seconds later, the door opens.  Special Agent Valkyrie walks in. She slaps a manila file on the table, then plops right down right on the edge.  She’s practically glowing, looking better than he’s ever seen her. Of course, she thinks she got a killer off the streets.  Little does she know—or even suspect—that he didn’t actually kill anyone.

“Do you know how my colleagues caught the Golden State Killer?”  She asks out of nowhere, grabbing Odinson’s mug, taking a swig from it.

“Excuse me?”  Bucky says, thrown by the sudden change in topic.

“DNA evidence on a tissue pulled from his garbage bin, matched with rape kits from the 70s.  Of course it wasn't as simple as that. They first had to find a suspect, and the DNA from the kits wasn't in the system.”  She lifts a brow, looking at him pointedly. “Just like yours.”

“Yeah,”  he grumbles,  “Because I've never commited a crime in my life.”

She continues like she didn't heard him speak.  “You know what they did? Genius really. They entered the kit DNA into an ancestry database, and found the killer's closest relatives.  After that, it was just a matter of narrowing the search to suspects who were the right age. Then, the tissue in the bin. In our case we already had a suspect.  You. But there was no physical evidence left at the previous crime scenes, not even at Miss Maximoff’s attempted murder. That is, until Brock Rumlow’s roommate found his body the morning after the gala.  Can you guess how we collected your DNA to see if it matched what was left at the scene?”

Yeah, Bucky can make an educated guess.  “Tissue in a bin.”

“Cross referenced with a fork I had already pulled off your plate after the gala dinner,”  she says, and Bucky feels violated. He didn't know the police could do shit like that.

“To make sure all our ducks were in a row for the judge.”  Odinson adds.

Valkyrie nods.  “Now poor Mr. Rumlow was found with a needle stuck in his arm, and words written on his chest in lipstick.  Lipstick that our medical examiner says was applied post-mortem. She swabbed a sample, isolated some skin cells, and what do you know?  It was a perfect match for your DNA. A judge was all too happy to issue a warrant for your arrest after that.”

Bucky stares at her in confusion.

“Maybe this will jog your memory: _pink_ lipstick,”  she says slowly, like he’s a child.

Bucky feels himself go white as a ghost.  His heart starts hammering in his chest, and a cold sweat breaks out on his skin.  It can’t be...

Valkyrie leans on the table, looming over him.  “What I don't get is why?”

“Why?”  Bucky croaks.  “Because I didn't do it.”

She shakes her head.  “I know why you did it.  What I don't get is why you've changed your modus operandi.  All the previous murders were made to look like accidents, but this one was an advertisement.”  She tips her head to the side, like she's studying a particularly interesting specimen. “Is it because you knew we were onto you, so you figured why bother?  Did someone tell you to do it? Or maybe you just hated Mr. Rumlow _that_ much?”

Bucky clenches his jaw.  “I am being framed. My lipstick was stolen from the company dressing room weeks ago.”

“Did you tell anyone that?”  Odinson asks.

“Steve knows.”

“Oh yes, _Steve_ ,”  she says.  “Your raison d'être.”  Bucky glares at her. “Did Mr. Rogers ask you to kill Brock Rumlow, is that how it is?”

Bucky tightens his jaw.  “Lawyer,” he states firmly, done talking, lest he dig himself further into this hole.

“Did Mr. Rogers ask you to go to Brock Rumlow’s apartment, and inject him with fentanyl-laced heroin?  Some sort of poetic justice? Maybe to make an example of him, that this is what happens to domestic abusers?”

“Lawyer.”

“Don't get me wrong, he was a piece of shit for what he did.”  She flips opens the file on the table, and Bucky swallows at the picture arranged on top of the papers, angled for him to see it perfectly.

“Val—”  Odinson starts, but she holds up her index finger and he shuts his mouth with a snap.

It's an image of Steve's torso, taken in front of a brightly lit background.  The photo cuts off just under the chin, but Bucky would know Steve in his sleep.  Yellowing bruises, interrupted by newer purple ones cover his body in swathes like a modernist painting.  His torso is beat black and blue, the bruises strategically placed below the collar and away from his arms.  Everything that could be hidden under a leotard.

“I read Mr. Rogers’ statement.  I've seen the pictures.” She gestures to the photo.  “I can even understand why you did it. Brock Rumlow was getting too cozy, trying to contact him again at Sharon Carter's funeral.  You were scared for Mr. Rogers. You wanted him gone.”

Three years ago, he remembers walking into the condo bathroom—half asleep, a crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch—to see Steve stepping out of the shower.  He had a towel around his waist, but his torso was completely bare. It was bare, and Bucky could see the proof of Rumlow’s _love_ on his skin.

Before that, Bucky had his suspicions.  Steve was always too quiet around Rumlow; too deferential during arguments.  Bucky had been crashing on their couch for a few months as he bled his bank account dry, trying to extricate himself from the non-compete clause in Pierce’s contract.  Rumlow avoided him like the plague. They barely knew each other, and Bucky was intruding on his territory. He tried to respect Rumlow’s space. It was a shitty way to get to know his best friend’s significant other, but Rumlow barely complained.  Instead, he took out his frustrations on Steve.

If Bucky dropped a sock in the hall on the way to do laundry, Rumlow balled it up and whipped it at Steve’s head.  If Bucky used up bandwidth to watch a movie, Rumlow called Steve selfish. If they went out to dinner without Rumlow, he’d take the opportunity to get high as a fucking kite, and Steve would blame himself.  He would cry over that piece of shit, like he was the one that forced Rumlow to snort a line of coke on the kitchen counter.

It was wrong on so many levels to see sunny, mouthy Steve downtrodden like that.  Bucky knew Rumlow was a piece of work. He had a drug problem, and he treated Steve like shit when he was using, but Bucky never thought he was capable of physical abuse.  When Rumlow wasn’t high, he was sweet on Steve in ways that made Bucky wish someone could love him like that.

Then, those bruises, Steve’s panicked gasp, and that was it.  Everything clicked, and Bucky was done. D-o-n-e, done. His brain checked the fuck out.  He came to, and his hands were around Rumlow’s throat as he shoved him halfway through a wall, Kill Bill sirens howling up a storm.  Steve had screamed his name, but Bucky was out of his mind with rage. Steve had to pry him off Rumlow before he managed to strangle the life out of him.  The only reason Rumlow didn’t press charges is because Steve didn’t pursue a domestic abuse case.

“He’s manipulating you.  Don’t spend the rest of your life in jail for him,”  Valkyrie says, and Bucky blinks at her. If she said anything before that, he was too lost in the past to catch it.  “Don’t let him be your ball and chain.”

Before Bucky convinced him to cut out Rumlow permanently, Steve used to say things like, ‘it’s not that bad,’ or, ‘it's just the coke,’ or, ‘he's sweet when he’s not high,’ or, ‘he's the kindest guy ever.’  Or the worst out of all of them, ‘he needs me, he’s going to kill himself with the drugs if I’m not there for him.’

Bucky didn’t give a damn about that, all he cared about was Steve.   _SteveSteveSteve_ who's too good to be some piece of shit's punching bag.  After Rumlow packed his bags and left, Steve cried all the time.  Bucky would hold him close and tell him over and over again, ‘he's your ball and chain, he’s dragging you down, honey.’  He didn’t give a damn if Rumlow overdosed. He cared about how close he got to beating Steve to death every time he shot up.

He reaches over and closes the file, unable to look at that picture any longer.  Valkyrie watches his every move, calculating. She’s got balls of steel. Bucky thinks he might even like her if she wasn’t trying to screw him over.

He takes a deep breath.  Making sure to look her straight in the eye, he says with finality,  “Lawyer.”

***

Eventually, tiredness wins out over paranoia.  He’s dozing—dreams peppered with floating metal bars, and shackles—when the door to the interrogation room slams wide open, and the handle goes straight into the wall with a solid crack.  Bucky startles awake to find Matt Murdock standing in the doorway like an vengeful spirit, a tall blonde woman at his heels, a deep frown on her face. She looks at his cuffed wrists, and frowns even more.

“Mr. Murdock,”  Bucky croaks, pushing his hair out of his face, licking his dry lips,  “Took you long enough.”

“Can someone get my client a bottle of water!”  Murdock yells over his shoulder, and a few seconds later a cop in uniform hands a sloshing paper cone to the woman.

When she gives it over to Bucky, her frown smooths into a kind smile.  It’s only after he takes a sip that he realizes how thirsty he is, and he downs the rest in one gulp.

“I'll get you more,”  she says, disappearing after the cop.

“My other partner, Karen Page,”  Murdock says in explanation, tapping the chair with his cane, before sitting down.  “She’s been my eyes these past few hours, tracking down what I need to get you free.”

“Shouldn't you ask if I did it?”  Bucky says tiredly, rolling his shoulders, joints sore from being shackled for so long.

“No.  A good lawyer doesn't need to know.”  Murdock smiles. “And besides, I know for certain that you didn't.”  He pats the laptop bag in his lap. “I have your alibi right here.”

Bucky eyes the bag curiously.  “Is Steve okay?” He asks softly, looking back up.

“He pointed us in the right direction.”  Murdock opens the bag, pulling out the laptop, a braille display hooked up to the keyboard.  Karen returns just then with three bottles of water, and a young cop dragging in another chair.  He doesn't seem keen to look Bucky in the eye, but he unlocks the cuffs from the table without a word.  He still has to wear them around each wrist, but at least now he can drop his hands to his lap. He nods to Karen, thanking her silently.

“But is Steve okay?”  Bucky repeats the question.

Murdock pauses.  “He's fine, don't worry about him.”

Karen looks at Murdock, then rolls her eyes.  “He told us to tell you that he loves you,” she adds.

Bucky smiles down at his hands.  Taking a deep breath, he says, “Okay, show me what you've got.”

Murdock clears his throat as Karen goes about turning on the laptop.  “First of all, our goal is to straighten out your timeline, and show them it isn’t possible for you to have commited the murder.”  The braille display refreshes, and Murdock runs his hands over it. “Mr. Rumlow’s time of death was determined to be around nine PM, after he returned home from his shift.  His neighbour reported hearing a shatter around that time. According to the police report, shards of a mug were found kicked under the fridge.”

“Steve and I left the gala just after dinner, around seven thirty-ish,”  Bucky says.

“After which you both drove to the diner to eat.  The problem is that while the diner cameras did capture the two of you, it was only for a few minutes because—”

Bucky groans.  “Because we did not sit down to eat, we just bought the pie and took it to the car.”

“Yes,”  Murdock nods.  “And to make matters worse, you parked directly out of view of any of the gas station cameras.”

“We were there for hours,”  Bucky sags in his seat. “I think we got to Steve’s around ten, and the cameras in the, uh…”  He blushes when Murdock smirks, but Karen elbows him in the side, and a disaffected mask slides back on his face.  “I’m guessing you got the footage from the elevator.”

“With Mr. Rogers’ help, and blessing,”  Murdock says. “Karen tells me you helpfully look right at the camera, and that it is obviously you and Mr. Rogers.”

“Great,”  Bucky says grumpily,  “And the FBI will have access to that footage?”

“Yes,”  Murdock says, apologetically.  “We will have to surrender it as part of your alibi.”

“But that still leaves a big gap in the timeline.”  Bucky lifts his hands to his face, rubbing his chin.  They come away covered with makeup. He blinks down at them.

He completely forgot that he was still wearing his costume.  Now that he’s noticed it, he can’t un-notice it. He closes his eyes.  He must look ridiculous. When he was cuffed and manhandled in the studio, he didn't cry.  Not even when they marched him out of the building, camera flashes burning his retinas. He only cried in the car ride over to the station, because he was scared and alone; Steve left behind on the curb.  His mascara must be smeared in streaks down his cheeks. He probably looks like a hot mess.

“Wait one second, Matt,”  Karen says. Something crinkles, and when he opens his eyes, he finds a pack of unscented makeup wipes sitting on the table in front of him.  Karen holds a compact in offering, an understanding smile on her face. “I know it’s scary,” she says, “But you’re doing just fine.”

“Thanks,”  Bucky says weakly.  He taps the compact, and she opens it, angling it so he can see his face.  Pulling out a wipe, he tries to look past his red, sunken in eyes, and the melted lines of makeup, scrubbing it all away.  He uses four wipes before he's satisfied, skin gone pink with irritation. Karen snaps the compact closed, returning it to her purse along with the wipes.  Bucky cracks open his water bottle, and takes a long, relieved drink from it. “Okay,” he says, nodding, feeling a little bit more human.

“You have Karen to thank for the rest of your alibi,”  Murdock continues, voice a little more gentle, and Karen presses something on the laptop, turning it around so Bucky can see the screen.  “She pointed it out while reviewing the available footage.”

“Is that from a dashcam?”

Karen nods, tapping the side of the screen.  “Some trucking companies require their drivers to install a dashcam for insurance purposes.  It runs twenty-four seven, even when the driver is not in the cab. This driver had just gotten off a fourteen hour shift, and stopped by the diner to grab dinner.  It is just your luck that he fell asleep at the table, and the waitress felt so bad for him she let him stay for three hours.”

“So that means…”  Bucky trails off eyeing the tiny figures of Steve and Bucky dancing in each other’s arms.  The footage isn’t great, but they’re illuminated under the sign, and his car is parked in such a way that it’s perfectly visible.  It’s undeniably them.

“There is no possible way you could have killed Mr. Rumlow.  There is footage of you entering the parking lot, and then footage of you leaving at the times specified.  You would have had to have been in two places at once.”

Bucky sags in his chair, shaking like a leaf.  He fists his hands over his eyes, and sobs with relief.

***

Special Agent Valkyrie will not stop looking at him like he’s a puzzle she’s keen on solving.  She has the proof of his innocence playing right in front of her, and yet she finds his face more interesting.  She’s obviously not sorry for falsely accusing him of murder. Odinson had apologized up a storm while uncuffing him, but she had just stood by silently.

She no longer thinks he killed Rumlow, at least.  The jury’s out on the other murders. Bucky thinks she’s just having trouble figuring out why his lipstick was involved despite his rock solid alibi.  To be fair, so is Bucky.

“Someone is trying to frame you,”  she says after Karen snaps the laptop shut.  They just finished sitting through nearly two hours of him and Steve making goo goo eyes at each other, then of them enthusiastically sucking face, wandering hands and everything.  Really, the elevator footage was just the cherry on top of embarrassment.

Murdock pulls a bud out of his ear, its long cord plugged into a cell phone.  “Please don’t talk to my client.”

“It’s okay,”  Bucky says to Murdock, then to Valkyrie,  “That’s what I told you. Someone stole my lipstick.”

She rolls her eyes, while still managing to look sheepish.  “Well, forgive me if I didn’t exactly believe you.”

“And now?”  Bucky asks.

“Hmm,”  she says, gathering up her copy of his alibi burnt onto a DVD, tucking it into a folder.

“Do you believe me now?”  He repeats the question.

She tucks the folder under her arm.  “From your dressing room, you said?”

“Yes.”  Bucky wipes his sweaty hands on his dress.  Tony is going to kill him for treating the costume like this, but he can’t help being nervous.  His livelihood is on the line.

She chews on her bottom lip, brows dipped in the middle.  “Who has access to the dressing room?”

“Theoretically, just company employees,”  he says. “A lock was installed on the door when a fan snuck backstage and stole a tutu, but no one bothers carrying a key around.  There’s tape over the strike, anyone could open it if they tried the handle.”

She frowns, but pulls out the chair beside him, sitting down.  Murdock holds himself stiff, ready to intervene, like she’s an adder about to strike, but Bucky isn’t scared.  He has the strangest feeling that she’s on his side. That she finally believes everything he’s saying.

“Are there cameras in and around the dressing room?”

“No surveillance inside.  That would break so many laws,”  Bucky says. He bites his inner cheek, thinking.  “I’ve seen one camera by the elevators, but someone could bypass it by taking the stairs from the parking lot.  The exterior door is key card access only, but around performance time there’s always someone rushing in and out.  Anyone could slip in after them.”

“You need a better system,”  she says wryly.

“Believe me, I’m going to bring it up with security.”

She crosses her legs, tapping a finger under her chin.  Her brown eyes look right through him. “He knows you.”

“I figured,”  Bucky says, a shiver going down his spine.  “Y’know with the whole framing me for murder thing.”

“You need to be careful, and be observant of your surroundings.  Sleep with one eye open if need be. I’d put a plain-clothes officer on your detail—”  Murdock opens his mouth, “—if I wasn’t sure your lawyer would object.”

“Are we done here?”  Bucky asks, rubbing his arms, trying to banish the goosebumps on his skin.  “Can I go?”

“One more question,”  she says.

“Special Agent—”  Murdock starts.

“Does the phrase ‘fallen angel’ mean anything to you?”

Bucky blinks at her, surprised.  “I mean... Los Ángeles translates to ‘the angels’ in Spanish?”

“Anything else?”  She pushes, eyes burning.

Uncertain, Bucky says,  “If you’re asking from a cultural standpoint, like on television and such, I guess that a fallen angel is seen as a demon intent on hurting humans…”

“But…?”  Valkyrie says, evidently picking up on his hesitation.

Bucky shrugs.  “Religiously, I was always taught that evil doesn’t stem from fallen angels, or demons, or devils leading people astray.  It originates within humans themselves as _yetzer hara_.  As a selfish inclination to do evil.”

She nods, her jaw working.  She glances down at the floor like she’s considering the pros and cons of telling him something she shouldn’t.

Her fingers tap out a rhythm on the table, and eventually she says, almost casually,  “When his body was found, the words ‘fallen angel’ were written on Mr. Rumlow’s chest in your lipstick.”  She pulls a card from her jacket pocket, handing it to him. Bucky takes it numbly. “If something else comes to mind, please let me know.”

***

“I don't know how to repay you, or even pay you really,”  Bucky says, holding the door open for both Murdock and Karen.  He’s wearing a pair of white trainers, joggers, and a crew neck sweater with the LAPD insignia scrawled over the front, the ensemble wrangled together by Karen.  His sweaty costume, tied up in a plastic bag, swings from his grasp.

It’s nearing dark out, the setting sun bathing everything in warm oranges, and Bucky can’t believe he spent almost twenty-four hours in that hell hole.  It felt like it was more than a week.

“There's no reason to worry.  Mr. Rogers is footing the bill,”  Murdock says with a smile.

“Oh Steve,”  Bucky murmurs to himself.

“Speaking of Mr. Rogers,”  Karen says. Bucky looks up, and there Steve is, parked very illegally by the curb in front of the precinct, leaning against his motorcycle.  His eyes light on Bucky, and his face immediately softens like the big schmuck he is. The big schmuck that Bucky happens to be crazy in love with.

Helpless, like a ship drawn to harbour, Bucky strides on over, across the cooling pavement.  Steve opens his arms wide for him, and Bucky walks right into the hug. He closes his eyes, and buries his face in Steve’s neck.

“Hey, baby,”  Steve whispers, sinking his fingers into Bucky’s hair,  “Let’s get you home.”


	16. blowing smoke

## blowing smoke

Bucky rests his head against the bathroom tile, shoulders touching the rim of the tub.  Absentmindedly, he swirls bubbles around, building a mountain on top of his knees. He closes his eyes, and sinks down into the water until only his nose sticks out, hair floating around him like seaweed.

“I have some bad news,”  Steve says, leaning against the bathroom counter, a mug of tea cradled in his big hands.

Coming out of the water, he wipes away the bubbles clinging to his face.  “Let me guess,” Bucky says, “Fury finally fired me?”

He knew this would happen the moment Valkyrie snapped those handcuffs around his wrists.  Fury’s wanted him gone for years. His arrest was the perfect excuse to finally make it happen.

Steve nods once, sharply.  “You could sue for wrongful termination.  You weren't even charged with anything.”

“I have no energy, nor money, to sue anyone.”  Steve opens his mouth, but Bucky's already shaking his head.  “If you're offering your money, I don't want it. Fury's been itching to get rid of me since day one. I'm tired of killing myself trying to please a man who refuses to be pleased.  Fuck him.”

If he's being completely honest, he's not even talking about Fury.  Bucky's been working himself to death since he was four years old, and for what?  Disappointment? In the end Valkyrie was right. He lost his passion a long time ago, but it wasn't beaten out of him by Alexander Pierce.  Bucky no longer wants to allow him that credit. Pierce has no hold over him anymore, and yet Bucky still dances to destroy himself. He still dances to fit Pierce's ideal.  He did this to himself. He is doing this to himself by pushing his body beyond its capabilities. He's turning something he loves into a thing eats and eats away until nothing is left.  All in an effort to be better than anyone else.

“I don't want to dance for someone who doesn't want me, I've had enough of that.  I need to respect myself.” He wraps his arms around his knees, resting his chin on top.  “And I've spent enough of your money.”

“I dunno, Buck, I've got a lot of money,”  Steve says, and Bucky shoots him a sharp look.  “What? I do.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.  “Shut up, you don't make _that_ much money.”

“Not from the company, no, but you should see the cheque Nike wrote me after I appeared in one of their campaigns.  I nearly fainted.”

“You're ridiculous, you know that, right?”  Bucky says fondly.

Steve shrugs, eyes twinkling.

A loud, disgruntled meow sounds from the other side of the closed door.  Apparently Jupiter wants in, and doesn’t appreciate being left out of the party.  “Can you...” Bucky starts, but Steve is already setting down his tea.

He lets Jupiter in, and she pads on over like she owns the place, meowing for attention.  Bucky holds his fingers out of the tub as Jupiter comes up to bat her head against them. He's glad he gave Steve a set of keys to his apartment.  He cared for Jupiter while Bucky was locked up at the precinct.

“How's my little trash man?  Miss me?” Bucky murmurs, scratching under her chin.  She lets him get a few good pets in, before flicking her tail, striding over to Steve.  Her nails catch on the bath mat, and she grumbles, jerking her leg, trying to free herself.

“Poor, sweetie,”  Steve croons, swooping down like a knight in shining armour to disentangle her.  “Aw, someone needs a trim,” he baby talks, picking her up with both arms, supporting her against his body.

Bucky sighs, scratching his head.  “Leave it, I'll do it once I get out of here.  Just grab the pink clippers from under the sink, please?”

Jupiter stretches out, rubbing her face against Steve's chin, licking his jaw.  “No, you're right, sweetie, let's not bother daddy over something simple like that.”  Bucky sputters as Steve sends him a devious grin. He sets Jupiter down, and opens the vanity doors, pulling out her nail clippers with a pleased, “ta da.”

“You don't have to,”  Bucky protests weakly.  The last thing he wants is Jupiter clawing Steve like he's a scratchboard.

“I want to.”  Bucky must make a face, because Steve laughs.  “I want to do this for you.”

Steve sits on the toilet lid.  He sets Jupiter on her back, cradled between his legs, fencing her in on either side so she feels supported.  Patting her belly, he then extrudes each nail, fast and efficiently clipping the tips as he goes. It's over in just a few minutes, and he releases her with no big fuss.  She flicks her tail a few times, bored with their company, then escapes out the open bathroom door.

Steve puts the clippers away, cleaning up and washing his hands in the sink.  Bucky watches, arms folded under his chin on the tub rim, grinning when Steve glances at him a few times, eyes lingering.  Sometimes Bucky can't believe he's real.

“Hey,”  Steve says with an earnest smile.  “We'll get you through this, even if we have to start our own company.”

Bucky blinks at him.  “Has anyone ever told you that you're crazy?  Completely, and utterly bonkers?”

Steve shrugs.  “Only every other person I've met.”

Bucky splashes around in the cooling water for a few moments longer, finally deciding to pull the drain.  With the water swirling around his toes, he says, “I never asked, but are you okay? Y’know, with Rumlow’s death?”  He winces at the finality of the question.

Steve shrugs, downing the rest of his tea in one big gulp.  “I haven’t been in love with Brock for quite some time. I’m fine.  I always hoped he’d get better.”

“He hurt you, Steve,”  Bucky says quietly. “I’m glad he’s gone.”

***

He’s being followed by the most obvious cop in the world.

Bucky’s stopped at the very top of a trail looking down into Lake Hollywood the first time he spots him.  Spot being the operative word. The guy has probably been tailing him since he left the precinct days ago.

He’s enjoying the breeze on his face, when he notices a big man limping his way to the summit.  The guy is a unit and a half, but is obviously not used to regular exercise because he’s huffing up a storm, wearing a sweaty cotton tee of all things.  When Bucky asks if he’s alright, he startles, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to talk to him. The guy waves him off, and Bucky continues on his way, hoping he doesn’t spot the guy’s dessicated corpse when he’s climbing back down.

The next time he pauses for a break, relaxing in the grass because his unemployed ass has literally nothing else to do, he notices the guy limping towards him in the distance, still winded to hell and back.  That’s when the suspicions take root and shoot up like a sunflower in August. There was an easier trail he could have taken, but instead he picked the same one as Bucky.

The next time Bucky spots him is through the window of his favourite deli, a block away from the company.  He's sitting in a black sedan, wearing a newsboy cap instead of the Dodgers one he had on in the hills. It’s clearly the same man, and he’s ‘reading’ an upside-down magazine.

When it’s Bucky's turn at the counter, he orders two coffees.

Tapping on the sedan’s window, he waits for the cop to crank down the glass.

“Here, for you,”  Bucky hands over the coffee, along with a few packets of creamer and sugar.  The cop gapes at him, but takes them anyway. “Valkyrie put you up to this?” Bucky asks, leaning on the edge of the glass.

“Uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about?”  The cop says like it’s a question.

“Why are you following me?”  Bucky asks again. “Don’t make me call my lawyer.”  He pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and shows him Murdock’s number at the ready.

“Christ, she’s going to kill me,”  the cop grumbles, head thumping on the steering wheel, splashing a little bit of coffee on the floorboards.

Bucky snorts.  “Undercover work isn’t your strong suit, Officer…”

“Skurge.”

“Sure,”  Bucky says skeptically.  “Officer _Skurge_ .”  What a name.  He could be an orc from _The Lord of the Rings_ with a name like that.

“I’m not following you,”  Skurge says, scratching the back of his neck.  “I’m on protection duty. The agents think you’re being targeted.  Valkyrie figured you’d be more open to having me around if you didn’t actually know I was around.”

“She was right,”  Bucky says. He straightens up, then knocks on the side of the car.  “Go back to your precinct, tell her I don’t need a babysitter.”

“To be perfectly honest, I think you do,”  Skurge calls out the open window, but Bucky waves him off.  He’ll be fine. If Steve’s stalker was planning on hurting him, they would have done so a long time back.  Besides, if anyone should have a protection detail on them, it’s Steve.

 _Oh_ , Bucky thinks, _he probably does._

With his coffee in hand, Bucky walks towards the company studios.  On the way he pulls out his phone, shooting off a text to Loki.

***

“James Barnes,”  an familiar voice calls from down the hall, stopping him in his tracks.  The apologetic security guard tailing him bumps into his back, and the contents of his former locker—packed away in a cardboard box—wobble precariously in his arms.

HR told him to come in to return the nymph costume, and to collect his personal effects, but they didn't let him get his stuff on his own.  Instead, he had to be escorted, like he might steal something out of spite. To be honest, he probably would have taken a small memento that no one would miss: a button or a silk flower.  Fury's acting like Bucky would roll out a rack of tutus given half the chance.

Bucky adjusts the box in his arms, just in time for M'Baku to walk on over, studying him from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head.

“Hmm, you're looking better.  Not what I was expecting.”

Bucky shrugs.  “Lots of free time on my hands to moisturize.”

“I'd imagine.”  M'Baku reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, sincerity in his eyes.  “I'm sorry they cannot see your worth.”

“You know what?  Thanks.”

After all the 'sorry you were sacked’ platitudes he got walking through this building, he needed someone to say that there’s nothing wrong with him.  It’s Fury who has issues a mile long. Nothing Bucky ever did could make Fury like him. Even Bruce had turned practically green with guilt when he spotted Bucky.  Everyone else was either overly apologetic, or disgustingly curious. Sometimes he misses the look-down-and-never-make-eye-contact mentality of New York. There are too many rubberneckers in this city.

“You find a new studio?”  M'Baku asks. “You can't stop dancing all of a sudden, your body will hate you.  Not to mention, your toes will fall off.”

“I doubt they'll fall off,”  Bucky says, wry. “Besides, I hike.”

“Not really the same thing, is it?”

Bucky extracts his now cold cup of deli coffee from the box, sipping at the sugary dregs.  “Don't have the money for it.”

M’Baku bobs his head.  “You should talk to this brat I know.  Her name is Shuri. She runs a outreach program in Oakland, with a chapter in LA.  They maintain dance studios, usually for classes, but I'm sure she'll take you on if you ask nicely.”  He pulls out his phone, and a few seconds later Bucky’s pings. “I’ve sent you her number. Make sure you text her, she doesn't like talking on the phone.”

“Who does?”

“Sociopaths, maybe?”  M’Baku chuckles. “She could use a few experienced dancers in her program.  You’d fit right in.”

“No company is going to hire me again,”  Bucky says. He was fired, and he has no references, no nothing.  The dance world is small, and it is tight knit. No company worth their salt will risk pissing off Fury.

“Call her,”  M’Baku insists.  “She’ll surprise you.  There’s a special place in her heart for broken white boys in need of fixing.”

“I don’t need to be fixed,”  Bucky says, stiffening. Maybe a few weeks ago he would have agreed, but he’s trying something new, and it’s called self-respect.  It seems to be working out just fine.

M’Baku looks at him for a few moments longer before breaking out into a wide grin.  “No, you don’t.”

***

Steve texts him when he’s on the bus.  His box of possessions is balanced on his lap, a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and the snoring guy beside him is heading towards second base with his neck.  Surreptitiously, Bucky elbows him under the ribs, and he wakes with smacking lips and a ‘whozit?’ Has Bucky mentioned how much he hates LA public transit?

The text from Steve is succinct, but too late to be of much use.   **Bruce said you came to get your stuff.  If you wait, I can give you a ride ;)**

Bucky sighs, then types out a reply.   **Already left, I’ll see you at home.**

Steve’s been staying with him the past few days.  Bucky feels safer with him nearby. When they were little, Steve was always best at chasing away the monsters living under the bed, stomping around like a little monster himself, acting bigger than he actually was.  Now that they’re older, and there are fewer dust bunnies to be scared of, Steve’s presence chases away more pressing fears.

His phone pings two times, one right after the other, just as the bus rolls to a halt in front of his stop.  Bucky mutters to himself, making a face of disgust when his gummed up shoe sticks to the black top. The bus rumbles off in a cloud of hot exhaust, leaving him coughing in its wake.  Three years of driving in this city has ruined public transit for him forever.

Setting the box on the edge of a raised bed outside his complex, Bucky checks his phone.  The first message is from Steve.

**Dum Dum called!  He’s meeting me at work, and we’re heading to my place after, don’t wait up!**

Bucky chuckles.   **Having a party without me?**  He texts back.

Steve’s reply arrives in only a few seconds.   **He works security, remember?  He said he could help.**

“Huh, oh yeah,”  Bucky says to himself.  He checks the second text.  It’s from Loki, replying to the question he sent earlier today.

**Come over, I’ll see what I can do.**

In his bedroom, he upends the box over his bedspread.  Sorting through the items, he organizes them into two piles; one to discard, and one to keep.  All his smelly, worn-out leather shoes are to be tossed, except for one. Still black and satiny, it’s never been used.  Touching his surname printed on the suede sole, he sets it on the keep pile. That's his memento.

His notebook lies at the bottom of the box.  When Bucky started counting calories, he did so to gain control of his life.  He heard so many stories of dancers starving themselves to make their bodies fit the aesthetic, but when it came time to dance, they had no energy left to speak of.  The notebook was his compromise. It was his way of achieving the perfect balance between looks and function. It is the control that he devised for himself. It has nothing to do with what anyone else wanted from him.  Not Pierce, not his teachers, not Steve. Agency is thy name.

He takes the notebook and sets it on his bedside table, just as his phone pings.  It’s a message from Natasha, a weird one to be sure. Weirder than her usual.

 **Who’s the man that left with Steve?** Then a few seconds later she adds,   **He’s familiar, I don’t know why.**

 **Another life, maybe?**  Bucky types,   **He’s new to LA.**

 **I don’t like him.** She texts, blunt as ever, **There’s something off about him.**

Bucky chuckles.   **You don’t like a lot of people, but he’s nice, we grew up together.**

Natasha doesn’t write anything more after that, so he assumes the conversation’s over.

Bucky feeds Jupiter, then dangles a cat toy in front of her nose until she tires herself into a puddle of mush.  She’s happily licking her paws, after scarfing down her dinner, when Bucky leaves for Loki’s.

He leans his head against the bus window, counting the street lights passing by.  Heavy indigo clouds gather in the distance, far over the Santa Monica Bay. The first storm of the season is fast approaching.

It’s an hour long trip from Mid-City to Beverly Hills by bus.  Steve lives a few streets away from Loki, and when Bucky drives to the condo it takes a little less than half that time.  He has no money left over for gas, and probably won’t for quite some time. Severance pay, supplemented by his meager savings will cover another few months of rent and his car payments, but he needs to find a new job soon.  He’s dreading it because ultimately if he wants to work in the same industry he’s going to have to leave LA, and by extension, Steve. There are no other major companies in the city, and if Fury starts bad-mouthing him to other directors, he’ll probably have to leave the state.  Fury maintains strong ties to Sharon’s old company in San Francisco, so they definitely won’t hire him.

Bucky’s seriously considering M’Baku’s advice.  Shuri’s phone number is burning a hole in his pocket.  Any job in dance is better than no job at this point.

When he rings the bell at Loki's gate, he doesn’t need to say anything, he just waves at the camera, and is let in without a word.

Loki lives in what could only be considered a mansion.  It’s a sprawling Spanish Colonial home with more space than two people could possibly need.  Bucky walks around the giant fountain in the centre of the courtyard, avoiding a Lamborghini painted a hideous gold and red.  Jeff, aka. _The Grandmaster_ truly has horrific taste.

Loki’s waiting by the front door, clothed in nothing but a patterned silk robe, a glass of bubbly champagne in one hand, a derringer in the other.

art by [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183151897348/the-last-one-loki-this-time-you-guys-have-no)

Bucky eyes the gun with some apprehension.  “Coyotes again?” He asks cautiously, lest Loki mistake him for one of the rabid beasts that attack his peahens on the regular.  Peahens. Because this is the kind of household that keeps _lawn peafowl_.

“No, just my idiot brother following you,”  Loki mutters cryptically. He lifts the gun, squints, and fires it over Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky jumps about a foot in the air.  “What the fuck!” He shrieks, at the same time someone else exclaims,  “Ha, you missed!”

Bucky whirls around to find a cocksure Special Agent Odinson, his hands on his hips looking completely unbothered by the smoking crater at his feet.  Bucky’s pretty sure a derringer should not be able to pack that strong a punch.

Loki shrugs, all _what can you do_ , taking a long swing of champagne.  “I’m a non-functioning alcoholic. It impairs my ability to shoot straight.”

“You seem pretty functional to me,”  Odinson says jovially. “You didn’t hit me.”

Loki gives Odinson A Look.  “I was aiming for you.”

“Sure you were,”  Odinson says happily, he walks right past Bucky, clapping Loki on the shoulder, making champagne slosh out of his glass.  He strides into the house like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Brother?”  Bucky asks, confused.  “But your surname is Friggason?”  Bucky glances after Odinson, then back to Loki who looks like he’s sucking on sour lemons.

Loki chugs down the rest of the glass, moving to tuck the derringer into his robe pocket, but Bucky manages to intercept it on the way.  He has no intention of driving Loki to the hospital in a million dollar Lamborghini if he accidentally shoots himself. He’d have a heart attack on the way there.  Bucky holds the gun gingerly, like it’s a live grenade.

“Please tell me you have a gun safe nearby,”  he begs.

Loki snorts.  “What do I look like, an idiot?”

After the gun is stored in a safe that pops out of a seamless wall like something from a Bond movie, Bucky goes to find Odinson in one of the many sitting rooms.  He’s curled up on a leather couch, making cow eyes at a gorgeous green python chilling in a tank larger than Bucky’s own bedroom.

Bucky has to snap his fingers in front of Odinson’s eyes to get his attention.  “Are you tailing me?” Bucky’s getting really tired of asking that question.

“Of course!”  Odinson rolls on his back, hands folded over his stomach.  “You didn’t want Officer Skurge on your detail, so I volunteered instead.”

Bucky sighs heavily.  He drops onto the other couch, then immediately gets up again, grimacing.  He can’t put on a serious face while sitting on the equivalent of wobbly jello.  Water couches, who knew they were a thing outside of the 80s?

“That’s not what I meant when I said I didn’t want him following me,”  Bucky grumbles.

“Well, you need to have someone on you,”  Odinson says, like Bucky’s being the unreasonable one.  “There’s a killer on the loose.”

Bucky folds his arms over his chest, chewing his lip.  He understands where Odinson is coming from. The killer is targeting people close to Steve.  And Bucky is close to Steve. Hence the killer might go after him next. It’s just difficult to get past the whole being accused of murder thing.  There’s a big part of Bucky that thinks Odinson’s only following him to find some more imaginary evidence to use against him.

Loki takes the opportunity to sweep into the room with a file folder in hand, his PI firm’s logo on the front.  Bucky narrows in on it, and so does Odinson.

“You shouldn’t bring your work home with you, Loki,”  Odinson chides, frowning in disapproval.

With the flip of a switch Loki goes from blasé to spitting furious in two point five seconds.

“Why is it when a federal agent's work is their entire life it’s fine,”  he snarls, turning an unfortunate shade of red, “But when taking pictures of cheating bankers’ lily white posteriers is my life’s purpose it’s suddenly not?”

“I phrased that badly.”  Odinson winces. “You know I support your career,”  he says with wide eyes. “Mom just wants you to come to dinner more often.”

Loki holds his head up high.  “Not if that sonofabitch is going to be there.”

“You really shouldn’t call our father a sonofabitch.  Gram Bestla was only ever nice to you.”

Loki huffs, appearing strangely chastened.  He hands the file to Bucky. “It’s okay to open it around this big oaf, he already knows most of it.”

“Oh,”  Bucky sags.  He had hoped Loki discovered some new information on the killer, something even the FBI didn’t know.  He’s disappointed, to say the least, but accepts the file anyway.

Loki folds his arms over his chest, leaning against the snake’s tank.  “Remember Mr. Rogers’ stalker from a few months ago, the man who hired me to find information?  We believe he’s the killer,” Loki explains, “Thor managed to get his hands on the unsealed—albeit heavily redacted—records of the person he was impersonating...”

Bucky sorts through the papers.  There are a few invoices from Friggason Investigations, as well as a lot of blacked out documents.  He flips through some bank statements before it finally registers what he saw on those invoices. He stares at the ink blankly, trying to process a million things at once.

“...it turns out the deceased man is a soldier.”

“Timothy Dugan,”  Bucky says breathily, halfway to straight out hyperventilating.

“You’ve noticed the name.  Yes, Mr. Dugan died in the line of duty in Afghanistan.  I spoke with another member of his unit, Jim Morita, and apparently Mr. Rogers and Miss Carter performed in a USO show for their base.  We suspect that’s when the obsession began. This individual—who likely was in Mr. Dugan’s former unit—is using his identity to—”

“We used to call him Dum Dum.”  Bucky whispers. The file slips from his fingers, but he doesn’t attempt to catch it.  It falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere. “I need to…” Bucky doesn’t bother completing the sentence, he just turns on his heel and flat out runs.  Screw his knees, screw everything else. Dum Dum, or whomever the fuck he is, is alone with Steve in his fucking condo.

Someone shouts after him, but Bucky doesn’t stop.  Steve’s condo is only a few blocks away. He has to make it in time.  He just has to.

 _Steve_.


	17. jackrabbit

## jackrabbit

There’s a storm brewing.  Thunder rumbles like a beating drum, or perhaps it’s just the blood pounding in his ears.  His shoes slap against the pavement as he runs down the street, eyes fixed on the monolith that is Steve's condo, blue neon tubes illuminating the facade like a oceanic beacon.

A car honks as he dashes across the road, a flash of colour in his peripherals.  His phone rings in his pocket, insistent. He ignores it. His destination is only a few more feet away.  Putting on an extra burst of speed, he clears the vegetation that hides the parking lot from the street, stumbling to a stop.

A body lays prone on the ground, illuminated by two streaks of light that stretch right across the blacktop.  A dark gash, wet with blood, is cut across the crown of his shaved head. It’s Officer Skurge. Bucky can’t tell if he’s dead.

An engine grumbles, and Bucky follows the headlights to their source.  To Dum Dum, _no_ , not Dum Dum.

_The killer_ leans casually on the open door of his sedan.  His hands are wrapped around a handgun's grip, pointed right at Bucky.  He blends in with the darkness around him, and Bucky can’t make out much of his face.  He doesn’t know if he’s smiling, or scowling. He doesn’t know if he has blood splattered on his clothes, or if he shot Steve with that same gun.  He can only see an outline, tinged in neon blue.

That’s a monster if he ever did see one.

His chest shakes, like a rattle in his lungs, and he lifts his hands slowly.  His mouth is dry, but he still manages to spit out a clipped, “Where is he?”

The killer knocks on the hood of the car, two taps with his knuckles, and Bucky can just barely make out a slumped figure in the backseat, a glimpse of blonde hair in all the dark.

Bucky swallows, shaking with nerves.  Eyeing the gun, he says, “There are cameras everywhere, if he took you up—”

“I don’t care.”  He sounds so different from before  His voice is raspier, deeper. Terrifying.  He’s not acting anymore, no longer playing the part of Steve and Bucky’s old friend.  This is who he is. “No one is coming.”

“I’m here,”  Bucky says quietly,  “I came.”

The killer shifts away from the car, out of the shadows, and finally Bucky can see his face.  The moustache is gone, shaved clean off. He looks like a plastic mannequin with sunken-in cheekbones.  Expressionless, and cold as ice. Bucky shudders.

“So you did.”  Reaching into his leather jacket, the killer pulls out something that glints silvery.  Tossing it at Bucky, he flinches as a pair of handcuffs land at his feet. “Put those on.”

Bucky must hesitate, because the killer turns and without a word, points the gun through the open door.  Right at Steve.

Diving for the handcuffs, he snaps one cuff around his wrist.  He moves to close the other one, but the killer tells him to stop.  Bucky watches him warily, attention fixed on the finger curled around the trigger.

“Get in the car.”  The killer circles around to the driver’s side.  “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Bucky approaches, handcuffs dangling from one wrist.  He slips into the cramped backseat, nose scrunching up in disgust.  It absolutely reeks of cigarette smoke. Takeout boxes and crumpled napkins are scattered over a seat peppered with cigarette bums.  Bucky pushes it all to the floor so he can sit.

Steve leans against the window, limp like a ragdoll, and completely out of it.  Bucky’s hands shake as he reaches for him, tilting his chin back. His skin is cold and clammy to the touch.  When Bucky feels for his pulse, he finds it elevated.

He wants to scream, he wants to yell, but that won’t do Steve or him any good.  Instead, he takes a few deep breaths, asking as calmly as possible, “What did you give him?”

“Close the door,”  the killer says from the driver's seat, shoving the gun in the empty space where the stereo should be.  Bucky shuts the door with a snap, still waiting for an answer he’s probably not going to get. “Show me your hands.”  Bucky holds them out, palms up. The killer takes the open cuff, and roughly grabs Steve’s limp hand, carelessly clicking it around his wrist.  Locking them together.

“Where are you taking us?”  Bucky asks as the killer starts the car.

“To heaven,”  he says, adjusting his mirror until Bucky can see his eyes.  Big brother watching over them.

“Shit,”  he mutters, sitting back.  Reaching for Steve, Bucky pulls him closer.  He’s much too large to lie across the backseat fully, but Bucky arranges him on his lap in a makeshift recovery position.

The killer merges onto the street, just as a set of headlights flash, illuminating the backseat.  It’s another car turning into the lot. Bucky lifts the hand that’s cuffed to Steve’s, saving his eyes from the searing brightness.

Driving out of the neighbourhood, the killer heads north into the Hollywood Hills.  He handles the many sharp turns with the skill of a driver for hire. Bucky closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose, and out through his mouth, trying to keep himself calm.  He threads his fingers with Steve’s, taking strength from him.

Bucky pushes Steve’s hair out of his face, then checks his pulse.  It’s slower than what it was before, but he doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

Curling over Steve, he presses his forehead to his temple.  “Whatever happens,” he whispers into his ear, “I love you so much.”  Steve’s fingers tighten around his, and Bucky’s eyes fill with moisture.  “I’m so sorry.”

Steve mumbles something in return, rubbing his face on Bucky’s knee.  Bucky rests a protective hand on Steve’s forehead. Sitting up straight, he meets the eyes watching them in the mirror.  “What did you give him?” He asks firmly, refusing to be brushed off this time.

“A sedative.  It’ll wear off in a few hours.”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Bucky nods.  At least he plans on keeping them alive for a few hours more.  Good to know. Bucky may be putting on a brave face, but on the inside he’s freaking out.  He doesn’t want to die at this man’s hands, and he certainly doesn’t want Steve to either. He thinks he might throw up, or hit something.  It’s really a toss up between the two. He shouldn’t have run out by himself. He should have told Odinson what he knew, but panic got the best of him.

It feels like they’ve been driving for hours, but it's probably only been a few minutes.  He doesn’t know where they’re going. He doesn’t know if the killer has a lair up in the hills, or if he’s just taking the scenic route to the freeway.  Maybe he’s going to drive them out to the Mojave, and hack them to pieces? He doesn’t fucking know, and the uncertainty is slowly eating him alive.

With his heart in his throat, he asks,  “Did you kill Erik Selvig?”

“I did,”  the killer says easily, unbothered,  “He didn’t suffer.”

“But Sharon had to?”  Bucky says, bitter. He thinks of the burnt out wreck of her car, and the violent inferno in which she died.

The killer says nothing.  Bucky stares out the windshield, at the sharp curves in the road.  A long stretch lays out in front of them. But then, a hundred feet ahead, a rabbit stops in the centre of the road.  Frozen in the headlights.

The killer doesn’t even slow down.  Bucky closes his eyes as the rabbit goes under.  Oh god, he's going to be sick.

“Your former employer hired me to dig up information on Steve,”  the killer says casually, tapping a beat on the wheel, like he thinks this is a nice weekend drive.  “Alexander Pierce.”

Bucky glares down at his feet, tears pricking at his eyes.  Pierce may be a bastard, he’s not homicidal. He wouldn’t go that far.  Not like this man.

“Actually that’s incorrect.  He hired Timothy Dugan, an old friend of Steve Rogers.”  The killer chuckles darkly. “Little did he know that I was living as Dugan.”

“Why,”  Bucky asks shakily, uncertain if he really wants to know.  “Why did you choose Dugan?”

“I knew him.  He talked about you two,”  he drawls. “You were the reason he enlisted.  Steve Rogers and Jamie Barnes, two angels with hearts bigger than their bodies could contain.  Always sticking up for the little guy. You two stood for something: liberty, the American way, that sort of bullshit.”  The killer smiles, and it’s the furthest thing from kind. “Dugan believed it up until they shipped him home in a box.”

“You want revenge for him?”  Bucky asks, holding Steve tighter.  “You think we killed him? Hate to break it to you—”

“Revenge for Dugan?  No, no, _no_.”  The killer laughs, cutting him off.  He smacks his palm against the wheel, sounding crazier by the second.  “Angels do exist, and when Steve Rogers danced on base, I knew Dugan was right.  God came down and blessed him for his goodness. For his deeds, he was remade tall and strong; an angel walking on earth.”

This is so wrong.  He’s so fucking wrong.  Steve put hours into the studio, into the gym.  He built himself up over years, working himself to the bone.  He doesn’t owe his physique nor his talent to a divine entity.  It was all him. That’s how it works for people like them. Miracles don’t exist.  There’s only blood, sweat, and tears. It’s a fight, and it’s never easy. But it's a fight they're willing to pick.

Clenching his jaw, Bucky growls,  “Steve worked hard to get where he is.  It had nothing to do with your god.”

The killer’s eyes sharpen like knives, and Bucky flinches at the anger in them.  He expects him to pull over at any second, to point the gun at Bucky and…

Bucky’s phone rings.  A sharp sound that has him jerking in his seat, surprised.

“Pick it up.”  The killer grabs for his gun pointedly.  “Say that you’re busy, then hang up. Don’t say anything else.”

Bucky slips his phone out of his jeans.  Natasha’s name and picture on the screen.  His hands are shaking so bad it takes him a few tries to accept the call.

“Natasha?”

“Put your seatbelt on, asshole,”  Natasha growls through the line. “And hold on tight.”

Bucky drops the phone.  Panicked, he scrambles for the seatbelt at his shoulder, drawing it around Steve and him.  The killer frowns, but then an engine revs like a vicious tiger, and his eyes go wide. He reaches for his own seatbelt, but it's too late.  Bucky curls up tight around Steve and closes his eyes.

The impact hits with the force of a sledgehammer.  Bucky cries out in pain as he's shoved forward, the seatbelt cutting into his neck.  Glass shatters, falling over him like rain. Time seems to slow. His ears pop, and someone’s screaming.  He’s pretty sure it’s him.

A screech of metal on metal, and the car grinds to a stop.  Smoke pours from the hood where it’s folded around a bridge column.

Steve hasn’t moved an inch out of his lap, he’s got him wrapped up so tight in his arms.  Bucky shakes his head, ears ringing, glass falling out of his hair. Checking on Steve, he feels for his pulse, touching him all over to make sure he's alright.  He has a few cuts on his face, but nothing that can’t be fixed with a bandage or two. Most importantly, his eyes are open. He’s blinking slowly, pupils dilated, but he’s finally awake.

“Ow,”  Steve whispers, and Bucky can’t help but smile.  Glancing out the back window finds the front end of Natasha’s Stingray crumpled like a can of soda.  

A groan sounds from the driver’s seat, and Bucky looks up in horror as the killer stirs.  He’s half draped over the dashboard, surrounded by a bloodied circle of cracked glass. Only the airbag prevented him from flying through the windshield.

The killer rises like the undead.  Turning around, his face looks like mincemeat, something straight out of a horror story.  His gaze seems to go right through Bucky, crazed with fury, bleeding mad. “Don't move,” he warns, voice like broken glass.  Picking up the gun that fell to the floorboards, he kicks open the door.

Natasha's waiting, wielding a tire iron like it's a baseball bat.  She has blood all over her face, all over her clenched teeth, and she looks meaner than a junkyard dog.

She hits him right in the throat, and he makes a sound akin to a deflating balloon.  The killer tries to lift the gun, but she snarls, “Not likely, motherfucker!” She whacks him across the wrist, and the gun goes flying.  “This is for Wanda!” She screams. She does not let up, and Bucky watches, dazed, as this tiny woman beats up a guy three times her size, hitting him again and again until he’s lying prone on the ground.  “For Erik!” Another hit. “For Steve and James!” A hit. “And all the people you’ve hurt!”

“Natasha,”  Bucky eventually says, shoving open the door with his shoulder.  The moment he gets it open, it drops from the car body with a crack.

“Shit, James.  I said I knew him from somewhere.”  She slumps and the tire iron slips from her grip.  “I came as fast as I could when I realized. One second more…  if my headlights hadn’t shined on you… I should have fucking known.”  She kicks the killer, and he groans. “He was wearing the same jacket when he attacked Wanda.  The same. fucking. jacket. I should have known.”

Bucky looks down at the killer’s dime a dozen leather jacket.  Too far for him to reach. He lifts his cuffed hand. “A little help, please?”

She finds a key in one of the jacket’s pockets.  Unlocking the cuffs, she then snaps them around the killer’s ankles so he can’t run.  Right now, he couldn’t get away even if he tried. He’s out cold.

Steve, on the other hand, seems in danger of braining himself with the way he’s struggling to get up.

Bucky sighs.  Tucking his hands under Steve’s pits, Bucky drags him from the smoking wreck of the car.  Natasha grabs his feet, huffing and puffing up a storm. Together they manage to carry him over to the curb.  The street’s completely empty except for them. A good thing, he supposes, since they left the damn killer lying right in the middle of the blacktop like roadkill.

Bucky leans back on his elbows, so damn tired.  He knows he's a hot mess. Steve and Natasha sure are.  They could be a comedy troupe, for all that they resemble the result of a cartoon explosion, just call them the three stooges.

Steve blinks slowly, looking slightly green.  Natasha sits beside him, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from god knows where.  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Bucky shakes his head, and she strikes a match against the curb, lighting up.  Taking a deep breath, smoke pours from her nose and mouth. Thankfully, the wind picks up, carrying it away.

Sirens wail in the distance, and lightning flashes.  Natasha glances up at the night sky, lips pursed. “Looks like it’s going to rain.”

Steve groans.  Abruptly, he pushes away from Bucky and Natasha, and upchucks all over the blacktop.  Bucky rubs his back, hoping he doesn’t have a concussion, or worse. Sluggishly wiping a hand across his mouth, Steve glances back at them in confusion.  “Christ, Nat, what the _fuck_ happened to your Stingray?”

Bucky throws his head back and laughs.  He’s still laughing by the time red and blue lights flash over the scene.  He only stops once they load him into an ambulance, but that’s just because he falls fast asleep.

art by [ewlyn](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183178192378/the-fifth-and-final-piece-of-artwork-i-have-done)

***

The first thing he notices when he wakes is that a very lumpy pillow is tucked behind his back.

A slow beeping informs him that he’s in a hospital, and Bucky opens his eyes to a perfect view of Natasha eating a cup of green jello, staring right at him.  She’s on the bed opposite his, decked out in a hospital gown, and a ton of bandages. One of her hands is cuffed to the bed rail.

Trying to look anywhere else is an exercise in futility.  His neck is stiff, and when he attempts to turn his head, it’s nearly impossible.

“You’re wearing a neckbrace, skippy.  Whiplash,” she explains, slurping her jello disgustingly.  “Sorry about that.”

Bucky stares at her in confusion.  “Why are you cuffed to the bed?”

She rolls her eyes.  “Apparently since this is America, and not the Soviet Union, I’m supposed to call the police, then do absolutely nothing when I witness my friends being kidnapped.”

“Thanks for not doing nothing,”  Bucky says, adding, “And for sacrificing your car.”

She shrugs.  “It was for a good cause.  Except now I’m being charged with…”  She starts counting off her fingers. “Aggravated assault; distracted driving, because I actually did call the police, and they can’t make up their mind if that’s something they wanted me to do or not; and the kicker, attempted vehicular homicide.”

Bucky’s jaw drops.  “Fucking hell, Natasha.”

“Don’t worry.”  She tosses the empty jello container aside.  “Murdock informed me that applying for citizenship two years ago saved my ass—so thanks for reminding me to do that, by the way.  Now I won’t get deported. Russian prisons are the worst.”

“You’re not going to jail, I’ll cry in front of the jury if I have to.”  Bucky scrubs a hand over his head, wincing at the many cuts and bruises on his scalp.  He’s just glad he still has insurance through the end of the month.

“Good man,”  she says, perkier.

“What about Fury?”  Bucky asks, worried that Natasha has joined him in the ranks of the unemployed.

She picks a card off her food tray, showing it to Bucky.  “He sent me this.” It features an infuriatingly cute calico cat in a cast, with the words ‘feel better soon!’ printed over the top.  “He even wrote me a little message.” She tucks the card under her pillow.

“Unbelievable,”  Bucky huffs, sinking back into his pillows.  He’s not even mad, he’s just tired, the last few days catching up to him like a bad case of the flu.

“You should see the flower bouquet he sent to Steve.”

Bucky perks up.  “How is Steve?”

“See for yourself.”  She points to the bed beside his.  Turning his whole body, he finds a very amused Steve lying on a pile of puffed up pillows.  “They got everything flushed out of his system. Me, on the other hand, I’m on so many painkillers I’m forbidden from speaking with the cops, so if you see any, make sure you beat them off with a stick.”  She yawns dramatically, arms stretched over her head until her back makes an audible popping sound. “I’m counting on you.” She immediately drops to the pillows, letting out a loud, obnoxious snore.

“Hi,”  Steve says, smiling so his eyes crinkle at the corners.  He's still so beautiful despite his swollen face, and his mummy-like state.  Bucky didn’t think he needed _that_ many bandages.  “I hear you're my Prince Charming.”

“Nah.”  Bucky blushes, picking at the pills on the blanket.  “That's all Natasha. I got stuck in the thorns, she rescued you.”

Steve shakes his head.  “No, you're my Prince Charming, she's my knight in shining armour.”  Bucky snorts. “Course that makes me Sleeping Beauty, so I'll say you owe me a kiss.”

“Is that right?”  Bucky smirks. “By that logic shouldn't Natasha get a kiss first?”

Steve grins, holding open his arms.  “Already gave her one. You're up, big boy.”

Bucky pushes aside his blanket, shivering as his bare feet touch the cold tile.  He pads on over to Steve’s bed, feeling ridiculous with the brace around his neck.  Going by the tenderness in Steve’s eyes, he doesn’t give a single hoot.

Steve puts his arms around him, tugging him close enough to mold to his body.  He rests his head on Bucky’s chest, burying his face in the folds of his hospital gown.  Warm fingers slip under the ties at his back, touching his bare skin, and Steve kisses the fabric right under his sternum.

Bucky pets his hair, happy to let him cling.

“I was so scared,”  Steve says quietly, after some time.  Bucky keeps petting his hair, letting him talk.  “He put something in my drink, and I got so dizzy.  Then he started tugging me to the door. I didn’t know what was going on.  He called me an angel, Buck.” His voice cracks. “He called me an angel, and told me he was going to take me out to the desert and sacrifice me.”

“Shhh,”  Bucky whispers, shaking from how close he came to losing Steve.  “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Steve sniffs.  “I’m deleting my Instagram, I’m never talking to my fans again.”

Bucky looks down at that mop of blond hair fondly.  His lips quirk. “You’re not deleting your Instagram,”  he says knowingly.

Steve rubs his wet nose over Bucky’s gown.  The only reason he doesn't pull back is because Steve’s dealing with a lot right now, and apparently being gross is his way of getting through it.  Once, when they were kids, Steve sneezed flu germs point blank in his face. It can’t get worse than that.

“You’re right, I’m not,”  Steve whines. “I put too much work into that thing.”

“You’re addicted to the attention,”  Bucky reminds him.

“I aaaam,”  he draws out the vowel.  “I’m a whore for attention.”

“You sure are.”  Bucky pats him on the back.  “But I love you anyway.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Bucky glances up to find Special Agent Odinson standing awkwardly by the door, one hand on the jamb, the other on the knob, looking like he wants nothing more than to make a quick escape.

“Yes,”  Steve growls, just as a very embarrassed Bucky shakes his head, saying,  “No.”

“Uh,”  Odinson says astutely, glancing between the two of them with something like panic.  Thankfully, Steve drops his arms. “I wanted to give you an update.”

“Hey, how’s Officer Skurge?”  Bucky asks, hoping to break the tension.  Also, hoping Skurge isn’t dead, which would make the tension a whole lot worse.

Odinson bobs his head.  “He’s pulled through with a total of twenty stitches upon his noggin’.  He keeps asking me to touch them, but I fear an infection. And unfortunately, he won’t leave the nurses alone.”

“My ma was a nurse,”  Steve says with narrowed eyes, cracking his knuckles,  “Want me to talk some sense into him?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”  Odinson blinks. “He keeps asking them to pull his finger.  Harmless, really.”

Bucky clears his throat.  “What did you need to tell us?”

Valkyrie pokes her head in under Odinson’s arm.  “He’s singing like a bird,” she says gleefully. “He threw your former employer right under the bus.  Alexander Pierce was arrested a few hours ago at his Manhattan apartment. He knew about the murders, but didn’t report them.  He's also claiming he had nothing to do with them.”

“Pierce may be an asshole, but he isn’t a killer,”  Bucky says bitterly. “There’s no money or recognition in murder.”

Steve reaches out and takes his hand, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.

Valkyrie gives him a sympathetic smile.  “Once he found out about his employee’s extracurricular activities, he cut off all contact with him, then flew to LA to approach you himself.”

“I turned him down,”  Bucky says.

“That you did.”  Valkyrie nods her head.  “Unfortunately for him, if he’d chosen to report the crimes, the last few victims would be alive today.  That won’t look good for him at trial.”

“But why would Pierce hire him in the first place?”  Bucky asks.

“Mr. Pierce planned on blackmailing Mr. Rogers into joining his company, and was very peeved that the material ‘Timothy Dugan’ promised was never delivered.  His company is in the midst of battling several sexual harassment suits. They’re practically hemorrhaging money. I imagine approaching you was his last shot at getting Mr. Rogers, and his crystal clear reputation, on his side.”

“Couldn’t he have hired a PI on his own?”  Steve asks.

Valkyrie grimaces.  “If you went to the police, it would have led straight back to him.  He needed a middleman to do his dirty work. Unfortunately for him, and five other people, he picked a homicidal one.”

Bucky snorts.  He doesn’t know what _material_ Pierce expected, but Steve has never done anything wrong in his life.  In Bucky’s opinion, at least.

“Sex tape,”  Steve whispers so only he can hear.

Oh, right.   _That_.  Wait one second…

“Please tell me it’s on a VHS tape in lock box somewhere in Switzerland, and you didn’t upload it to the cloud like I think you did?”  Bucky begs. He’s so glad that the killer contacted Loki, and not any other PI in Los Angeles. If Pierce had gotten his hands on Steve’s sex tape, Bucky hates to think what might have happened.

Steve grins deviously.  Forget everything Bucky said before, he hates this little idiot.

“The other two involved have access to it as well.  I’m not ashamed.”

Bucky claps a hand over his face, groaning loudly.  Then, Steve’s words register. His mouth drops open in shock.

“Two!?”

***

Bucky double checks the address on his phone, then looks up at the building in front of him.  It's so colourful, support beams and walls decorated with gorgeous murals and graffiti. It stands out compared to the concrete and glass buildings around it.  He’s pretty sure this is the place he is looking for. The bus drives off, so even if he’s made a mistake he’s going to have to wait a half hour for the next one.

“Here goes nothing,”  Bucky mutters under his breath, marching up the front steps, determined.

A group of kids bouncing a basketball between the four of them give him funny looks.  Even the receptionist gawks at him as she directs him to the elevators.

Admittedly, he sticks out like a sore thumb.  Not just because he’s the palest guy for miles around.  And not just because his face has been all over the news in preparation for the trial.  He’s wearing a suit, and a neckbrace, looking like a goddamn mob enforcer. Just like John Travolta in _Pulp Fiction,_ as Natasha so kindly informed him at her trial.  Which was today, and which thankfully ended in an acquittal on all charges except one.  Apparently the county of Los Angeles is _very_ serious when it comes to cracking down on distracted driving.  She was slapped with a hefty fine, and a hundred hours of community service.  A light sentence, considering she was accused of attempted homicide.

Bucky didn’t even have to cry in front of the jury.  The moment Steve testified, asserting that Natasha saved them from certain death, wielding his big blue eyes indiscriminately, the prosecutor didn’t stand a chance.

As for the guy who kidnapped, and—according to his confession—nearly sacrificed Steve and Bucky to some amorphous god, he’s going away for a long time.  It won’t bring back the men and women he killed, nothing could do that, but at least it’s justice for their families.

“Bucky?”  Someone says as he opens the door he was directed to.  Okoye sits on comfy couch in the centre of what appears to be a laboratory, going by the plethora of monitors, and some sci-fi looking gadgets.

“Okoye?”  Bucky stares in confusion at her black pant suit and pointy heels.  “What are you doing here?”

“I work security for the princess.”

“Security?”  Bucky says with wide eyes, then,  “ _Princess_?”

She shrugs.  “Part time security, when I’m not dancing.  Her brother entrusted her well-being to me.”

“Princess?”  Bucky asks again, voice slightly strangled.  “You mean to tell me that M’Baku’s friend Shuri is Princess Shuri of Wakanda?  Wait, what am I saying, of course _Lord_ M’Baku’s friend is a princess, I don’t know why I expected any different.”

“Don’t let him catch you calling me his friend, he won’t ever admit to it,”  Princess Shuri herself says, climbing down a curving staircase.

She’s done more for the disenfranchised all over the world in her eighteen years of life than most people do ever.  She also looks vaguely familiar, and not just because Bucky skimmed over her impressive Wikipedia page while looking up M’Baku’s and Okoye’s.

Starstruck, Bucky bows deeply and respectfully, like he’s on stage thanking his teacher with a révérence.  Shuri promptly laughs in his face.

“Sorry, was that mean?”  Shuri says sheepishly. “It’s just funny, only white people bow to me.  That’s not a thing we do in Wakanda.”

“I need to sit down,”  Bucky says weakly.

“Awesome,”  she waves him over to a desk with two squashy armchairs, one on each side.  “We can get your employment paperwork taken care of.”

“I thought this was an interview?”  Bucky says, surprised. He drops into the chair, sinking into its squishy goodness.

“Oh.”  Shuri pauses in the middle of sorting through a pile of paper.  “I mean, we can do an interview if you really want?” She holds out her hand for Bucky to shake.  “I’m Shuri of the Golden Tribe, daughter of King T’Chaka and Queen Ramonda, sister of King T’Challa, and all around chill gal.”

Bucky returns the gesture.  “Uh, I’m Bucky of Brooklyn. My parents are Winifred and George, also of Brooklyn.  My sister is Rebecca… of Brooklyn.”

“Are you aware of what the position entails?”  She asks, smiling so adorably Bucky wants to pinch her cheeks.  And wow, he should not want to do that to his future boss. That’s never been a thing he’s struggled with before.  Then again, he imagines squishing Fury's cheeks and immediately shudders.

“Teaching,”  Bucky says indecisively.  He’s only ever had two interviews in his life, and both of them were for jobs where the interview portion of his candidacy didn’t matter so much as his physical capabilities.  “I will be running classes for people interested in ballet.”

“Yes, that’s a part of it.”  She waves her hand dismissively.  “But that’s not all. You have too much experience, and too many skills to let them go to waste.”  Shuri leans forward, as if to divulge a secret. “How comfortable are you with travel?”

Bucky shrugs.  “I mean, I’ve never been airsick?”

Shuri grins, showing off her royal dimples.  “We run outreach all over the world, but our dance program is still in its infancy.  I’d need you to travel to get all our other branches on their feet, start the ball rolling if you will.”

“But I’ll still live in LA?”  Bucky asks carefully. That’s something that he was clear about in his texts.  He’s not moving again. Not now at least.

“Of course.”  She folds her hands together on the table, excitement in her eyes.

She’s so young, and already a brilliant entrepreneur.  Bucky would be privileged to work for her organization.  Heck, Steve’s been raving about Wakanda’s outreach programs for years.  Of course Bucky’s interested.

“What do you say, do you want the job?”  She asks like she already knows his answer.

Bucky dips his head, smiling.  Why not? What does he have to lose?

“Yeah.  I do.”


	18. epilogue

## epilogue

_Three Years Later_

The city of Birnin Zana has everything anyone could want: great restaurants, entertainment, and a transit system that doesn’t suck balls.  It also has the best open air market in the world. In his opinion, at least.

Shaded from the sun by multicoloured canopies, it’s full of fresh local produce, and rambunctious merchants hawking their wares.  He loves the smell of the greasy fast food sold out of carts, liable to give him a heart attack if he’s not careful. But most of all, he loves the variety.

The horned cucumbers look good, so Bucky grabs a couple of them.  A little bit of ice, some sugar mixed in with a few slices of the cucumber, and he’ll have a damn good lemonade on his hands.

The fruit seller chats about the weather as she packs up his produce, a topic that somehow segues into her ward's football team losing catastrophically to their long time rivals.  She loses him around there, and all Bucky can do is smile and nod politely as she goes on and on about statistics and sports terminology.

Bucky would have a hard time understanding everything she's saying, even if they were speaking English.  Xhosa is difficult enough without all this new vocabulary thrown in. It still falls haltingly off his tongue, and he often has to think over a sentence before he speaks it, but the locals don’t tease him  _ that _ much.  At least not that he’s aware of.

He manages to grab his cucumbers and flee when she is distracted by someone inquiring after the price of mangosteens.  All that's left on his grocery list is food for Jupiter.

Wakanda is a landlocked country, so there isn’t a great selection of fish for Jupiter, who always prefered salmon flavoured everything.  Most of what’s dredged out of Lake Turkana is sold to restaurants, and imports are far out of his budget. While the country is no longer in isolation, few people actually prefer western products to Wakandan made.  Except for the coffee. If there’s one thing that’s a constant around the world, it’s that there will always be a Starbucks on every corner of a big city.

Bucky likes to think he’s a good cat dad.  After some time asking around, he found a way to satisfy his cat’s whims and fancies.

With his canvas bag tucked under his arm, he leaves the market, the wide brimmed hat on this head protecting him from the sun's rays.  The city is nestled in a valley surrounded by a lush mountain range. It doesn’t get as hot as the lowlands, nor as cold as the highlands.  Still, the climate is varied and fickle to say the least. He never leaves his apartment without a hat.

Ever since King T’Challa opened the country’s borders, scientists from all over the world have flocked to Wakanda for its biodiversity.  Only five years ago the northern white rhino was considered functionally extinct. Then some lucky biologist wandered out of her hut one morning to find a herd of females and calves grazing on her vegetable garden.  Nowadays it’s not uncommon hear about some plucky scientist ‘discovering’ and naming a new species that the locals had already discovered and named hundreds of years ago.

Crossing the busy street, Bucky ducks into a sheltered alley.  He’s surrounded on all sides by adobe houses covered in brightly painted murals.  His sandals slap against the ground, leaving dust clouds in his wake. He could have taken a streetcar down to the lake, it’s faster than making the journey on foot, but he loves walking the city.

Birnin Zana is the most beautiful place he's ever lived.  And in the past few years he’s lived in many beautiful places.  Shuri had him moving around, all over the world, and while Budapest comes in a close second, nothing beats Birnin Zana.  Not even Brooklyn.

Bucky is doing well for himself in Wakanda, better than New York and LA combined.  He’s a principal at the company, and he teaches a few classes in the off season. Years ago when Peggy suggested he learn Benesh notation he laughed it off.  Now he’s an actual choreologist, certified and everything. He never pursued an education beyond high school, but Shuri managed to pull some strings. Bucky completed the courses online, and only had to fly out to London for the final examination.  

It’s because of his certification that he got the chance to work with Queen Nakia, documenting a project inspired by the legend of Bashenga, the first king of Wakanda.  It’s debuting in only a few weeks.

Ballet is relativity new to Wakanda, but there's a strong interest.  The arts are well funded, and Shuri’s program has a massive budget. She openly invites dancers from all over the world to come work for the company for a season, or on a more permanent basis.  Dancers of colour are so often sidelined in the West, especially in larger companies, but in Wakanda they’re given the chance to shine.

As he walks down a narrow set of steps, a child rounds a corner with a pygmy goat cradled in her arms.  She bumps right into him, and Bucky catches her automatically before she bounces backwards. He spins her around and sets her back on her feet with flourish.  Just like she's one of his students.

Her goat warbles, nibbling at her hair, and she hides her face in its spotted coat, mumbling a reluctant ‘thank you’ in Xhosa.  Bucky tells her to be more careful, especially when it’s not just her hide on the line but her animal’s. She does what any sensible child would do after being lectured by a strange white man: she takes off like the wind, leaving him behind in the dust.

Bucky sighs, wiping the sweat off his brow, wondering when exactly he became such a responsible adult.  His ma would be so proud. _Urg_ .  He blames the queen for everything.  Someone had to step up and be the reasonable voice in the room when faced with her ideas, and unfortunately it turned out to be him.  Now he’s the unfun guy who says _you can’t give our dancers real weapons on stage, holy crap are you out of your mind?_  Unfair.

At the end of the alley, the Turkwel River lays out in front of him, teal and huge.  He adjusts the hat on his head, and heads towards to a group of fishing boats pulled up to the sandy shore.

Bucky buys the bycatch the restaurants don’t want.  The stuff that normally gets fed to the fishermen’s dogs.  He gets it at a good rate, and thankfully Jupiter can’t tell the difference between pike and salmon.  He’d go bankrupt if he had to source all her food from the few sushi restaurants downtown.

Bucky takes the maglev train back home, enjoying the air conditioning.  The station near his apartment is home to his favourite restaurant, one he frequents a few times a week.  He's still hopeless in the kitchen, a change in setting couldn't help that. At least his ma has finally accepted the simple fact that he should stay far away from a stove.

The restaurant's owner—who Bucky only knows as aunty, because that’s the only thing anyone has ever called her—comes out of the kitchen to say hello.  He chats with her as someone packs up his food: wat, tibs, and a few veggie sides. She loves gossip, and one of her nieces is in Bucky’s class, so he takes the opportunity to get her all caught up.  Once his order is ready, she sends him on his way with a pat on the cheek, and loads of extra injera.

His apartment is in an older ward.  He supposes it could be called the suburbs.  Originally, he had chosen it because it was the only ward in the city with a shul he liked.  But now, he loves it for its quiet sleepiness.

His building is only a few stories tall; mud and stone walls absorbing heat like a sponge, keeping the interior cool.  The windows have no glass. Instead, they’re latticed with a windcatcher design that keeps the heat out, but lets the breeze right in.  There’s no need for air conditioning. It’s cool enough at night that he has to sleep with a blanket, and comfortable enough during the day that he doesn't feel the need to stick his head in the freezer every ten minutes.  Best of all, he no longer balks at his electricity bill come the end of the month. That’s something he doesn’t miss about LA.

Bucky kicks the door shut behind him, juggling bags in his arms.  He steps around the suitcases still sitting by the door, airport tags dangling from the handles.

He doesn’t know how Steve managed to convince Fury to let him have the season off.  Bucky likes to think it has something to do with the email Fury sent him after Pierce’s trial.  Guilt is a powerful motivator.

Fury had explained that when Bucky left New York, Pierce spread lie after lie about him.  And of course Fury believed the words of a world-renowned ballet master over a _troubled_ dancer.  It poisoned his opinion of Bucky, long before he even met him.  Fury apologized in a sorry-you-felt-I-treated-you-badly manner, and Bucky had no qualms about not replying.  He too can be full of spite.

“I’m home,”  he calls, dumping his bags on the kitchen counter.  The fish goes in the fridge along with the cucumbers.  Jupiter sits on the windowsill above the sink, purring when Bucky scratches under her chin.  She seems overly interested in licking his hand that—he sniffs his palm—stinks like fish. Great.

“What’re you up to?”  He asks softly as he washes his hands with loads of soap.  Bending to her level, he snorts when he sees a lazy lizard sunning itself on the other side of the lattice.  Far out of Jupiter’s reach, but close enough to keep her interested. “Good luck with that,” he tells her, leaving her to a hopeless endeavor.

“Steve?”  Bucky calls, unpacking the takeout.  When he doesn’t reply, Bucky grabs a roll of injera and goes to find him.

Bucky discovers him fast asleep on the divan in the living room.  Jet lag is a killer.

He’s lying on his back in front of the door that leads to the balcony, one arm tucked behind his head, the other across his stomach.  The lattice shutters are closed, and the gauzy curtains pulled, providing some privacy. His hair is slightly damp. He must have grabbed a shower to wash the twenty hour flight off his skin.

Bucky sits on the divan, in the curve of Steve’s waist, a space he likes to imagine was made especially for him.  Holding the injera up to Steve’s nose, he lets him get a good, long whiff, before Bucky take a bite. Steve’s nose wrinkles in interest, and he blinks his blue eyes open.

“Hey.”  Bucky leans over him, rubbing a thumb on his hip bone.  “Sleep well?”

Steve groans, stretching his arms over his head.  Fascinated, Bucky moves his attention to the warm skin on Steve’s stomach left uncovered by his shirt.

“You’re home.”  Steve smiles sleepily, dropping his hand on top of Bucky’s.  He shivers at Steve’s phrasing. _Home_.

“I brought food.”

“Mmm.”  Steve licks his lips.  He pushes Bucky’s hand further down, guiding him where he wants.

Bucky’s brows climb up to his hairline.  He sets the injera on the coffee table, pushing aside his research books to make room.  “Don’t you want to eat?” His fingers dip under Steve’s waistband.

Steve smiles, eyes at half mast.  “It can wait.”

Bucky’s fingers comb through his short hairs, and he curls a hand around Steve’s hardening length, smiling at the little hitch in his breath.  “It can wait,” he agrees. “Let me get the lube.” He presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead. Deviating on the way to the bedroom, he puts the food away in the fridge for later.  

When he returns, tube in hand, he finds a now shirtless Steve touching himself over his shorts.  He’s also pretty sure half of the injera is missing. He sets the lube down and leans over Steve.  Grabbing hold of his chin, he kisses him deeply and thoroughly. Yup, he was right.

“Sneaky, sneaky,”  he murmurs.

“You never said it was yours.”  Steve stares up at him, wide-eyed, innocent as ever.  His lips are so pink, Bucky can’t resist kissing him again.

“I thought…”  A kiss. “...that…”  Another kiss. “...was obvious.”

“Let me make it up to you,”  Steve says, petting the side of Bucky’s face.  “I know you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Oh, do I?”  Bucky teases, hand skimming down Steve’s thigh.  Sometimes he can’t believe he gets to have this. After everything they’ve been through.  After all the years they’ve spent apart, and together, and apart again. He gets to have Steve.

“I can’t get you off my mind,”  Steve admits, tugging on a curl of Bucky’s hair.  “I prepped myself while you were gone. You could slide right in, if you wanted to.”

Bucky heart just about stops in his chest.  An embarrassing noise threatens to spill from his lips, and his skin tingles everywhere they touch.  He imagines Steve in his bed. _His bed_.  The place he’s slept alone for a year now.  Steve’s legs linked around Bucky’s back, head thrown back in pleasure.  Fuck, he’d look so beautiful writhing on Bucky’s batik bedspread.

He knows Steve is thinking the exact same thing because they share a private smile.  “How do you want it?” Bucky asks because it’s the polite thing to do. He’s well aware of the kind of sex Steve likes: rough, hard, his face buried in a pillow so he can’t scream, Bucky’s hands leaving marks on his hips.

Which is why Steve surprises him when he says,  “Slow. I want to feel you.” Because that’s the way Bucky likes it.  He likes being full, he likes the long drag of Steve’s cock in him. He likes to fuck face to face, to look into Steve’s eyes and know that he’s with him, in the moment.

He presses his forehead to Steve’s, whispers,  “Okay.”

Don’t get him wrong, he’s well aware of what brought this on.  After all, it's been a year since they were last together.

When Bucky accepted the principal position at the Wakandan Royal Company they both knew it would put a strain on their relationship.  Wakanda is half the world away from LA, and video calling can only go so far. He wants to fit Steve into his life, but Steve needs to want it too.  It's hard making a relationship work when that they live on two separate continents. This past year they struggled, they fought, and they had torrid Skype sex, but ultimately they pulled through.  And now Steve is _here_.  A guest artist for the season.

Bucky’s a selfish man.  It’s still not enough. He wants Steve to stay, forever.  But Steve has a life in LA, he has friends, a career he built for himself.  Bucky hasn’t asked him to stay because he's scared Steve will say no. He's scared that Steve will choose his career over their relationship—their friendship—again.  He’s knows that’s not what Steve intended when he left New York at sixteen. Logic doesn’t stop his lizard brain from circling back, thinking of it as a betrayal.

He’s so terrified Steve will break his heart, he’s been avoiding the _other_ question he should have asked months ago.

Bucky’s hands shake as he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it on the floor.  He stands and helps Steve yank his sweats down and off. He's not wearing anything underneath.  Bucky steps back to admire the picture he makes, but accidently knocks over his stack of research in the process.  Smooth.

“Shit,”  he mutters when his notes go flying everywhere in the breeze.  He dives for a few before they go under the divan.

“The Golem,”  Steve reads, and Bucky pokes his head back up, startled to hear those words coming from anyone’s mouth but his.

Steve holds onto a stave that must have drifted into his lap.  His brow furrows as his eyes dart over the page. Bucky blushes, grabbing for it roughly enough that the paper crumples.  He collects all his notes, and tucks them under the heavier books. Far from Steve.

“You're making a ballet,”  Steve says, eyes wide. “You never told me.”

“I'm dabbling,”  Bucky says, hands twitching at his side.

“That looks like more than dabbling to me.  You have a score and everything,” Steve says, and it doesn’t quite sound like an accusation, but it’s heading that way.  Bucky doesn’t want to fight. That’s the last thing he wants.

Except, Steve's right.  It isn't just dabbling.

Two years ago Bucky met a composer in Budapest, a older man named Jan with a shock of curly white hair à la Albert Einstein, and the impressive ability to score a ballet in his sleep.  They've been working on this project since. At first, it was just the two of them trading ideas over email, but now it's being funded by a prominent Jewish cultural organization. They’re supposed to be keeping it hush hush.  At least that’s his pathetic rationale for not telling Steve. Pathetic, because Jan’s wife knows all about it, and she isn’t even involved in ballet.

“Baby,”  Steve says in a voice that never fails to turn him into a puddle of goo.  “If you don't want me to know, I'm not going to ask.” He sounds so sad, and that's not it.  That's the furthest thing from what he wants.

What he wants is something he’s beyond capable of asking.  He wants Steve to originate the lead role. The Golem is a protector, and Bucky can’t think of anyone better to dance him.  He just has to figure out how to ask Steve. Which just so happens to be the part he's stuck on.

Bucky takes a deep breath.  “I'll tell you later, I promise.”

Steve looks into his eyes, then dips his head.  “C'mere,” he says, holding his arms wide open. Bucky slides into his embrace.  “It's been so long since I've held you. I miss this.”

Bucky presses his forehead to Steve’s.  “I’ve missed you too.”

“I love you, you know that right?  More than anything.”

“Yeah.”  Bucky sighs.

Steve nods, and for one second he looks like he wants to say something more, but the moment passes.  His eyes darken as they drop to Bucky’s lips. “Fuck me, Bucky. Then we’ll talk about it.”

Bucky drops his head to Steve’s shoulder.  “Shit.” He’s sitting in Steve’s naked lap, but his traitorous dick is soft.  “I don’t think I can, I’m sorry.”

Steve combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair.  “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

Bucky rubs his arm over his wet eyes.  “Do you want to get dressed?”

“If you don’t mind?”

Bucky hands over Steve’s sweats.  Once he pulls them on, they sit side by side, not looking at each other.  Eventually Steve drops his head to his hands, swearing up at storm. Bucky stares at him in confusion, hand hovering over his shoulder, unsure if he’s allowed to touch.

“Nat was right,”  Steve says eventually, looking up at Bucky with red-rimmed eyes.  “I’m a bloody coward.” Bucky can’t help the snort that leaves his throat.

“She’d probably say the same thing about me,”  Bucky admits. “Actually, compared to Natasha, ninety-nine percent of all humans on the planet are cowards.”

Steve laughs humourlessly.  “She did single-handedly rescue us from a serial killer, and I can’t even find the balls to tell you that I quit.”

“But you just started?”  Bucky says stupidly, heart in his throat.  Steve quit? Half a day in Wakanda, and he already wants to leave?

“Well, not so much quit as I didn’t renew my contract.  I also sold my condo. Got quadruple what I paid for it, actually.”

“Wait, what?”  Bucky chokes on air.  What is Steve saying?

“Fury was _pissed_.  He called me a motherfucker during class, so I punched him.  No one talks about my ma like that.”

“Wish I could have seen it,”  Bucky breathes, stunned.

Steve rolls his eye.  “If you had an Instagram you would have.  Wanda filmed it and everything.”

“You quit,”  Bucky repeats.

Steve shrugs.  “I missed you.”

“That’s why, because you missed me?”  Bucky says in disbelief.

Steve stares at him with wet eyes.  “I can dance anywhere in the world, but I only wanna dance when I’m with you.”  His words knock Bucky over like a blow to the head, but Steve continues, rambling like he didn’t even notice.  “I bought a penthouse in one of those new developments downtown. Did you know they’re completely carbon neutral?  Solar powered. In fact, they generate enough energy to put power _back_ into the grid.  That’s pretty neat.  My stuff is still being shipped over, which is costing me an arm and a leg.  Not enough to put a dent in the money I got from my condo, of course. I still can’t believe how much that thing went for.  No wonder there’s a housing crisis—”

“Steve.”

Steve blinks at him.  “Yeah?”

“I fucking love you.”

“I love you too?”

“I’m making a ballet for you.”

“Oh.”  Steve’s voice shakes with emotion.

“Well, not just for you, it’s for me too, and all the other people funding it.”  He smiles shakily. “But really, the main role, it’s… it’s for you. If you want it, that is.”

Steve looks stunned, and Bucky blinks rapidly, waiting for him to say something, anything.  Steve licks his lips, leaning closer. “For me?”

“For you,”  Bucky says the words into Steve’s mouth.

Steve kisses him desperately, teeth clacking painfully, but it’s perfect, and frankly Bucky couldn’t give a fuck.  He grabs Steve’s neck with sweaty palms, slides his tongue into his mouth apropos of nothing.

Steve throws a leg over his thigh, scrambling into his lap, and Bucky grabs his ass, yanking them closer together.  He digs his fingers in, making them both groan. Steve grinds on him frantically, and Bucky’s so turned on he’s practically seeing stars.

“I want you,”  Bucky pants.

Steve pulls away, out of his lap all of a sudden, and for one dreadful second Bucky thinks he fucked up.  But then Steve’s pulling down his sweats, tossing them god knows where. He’s naked like the day he was born, and Bucky’s still wearing his jeans.  Steve seems to realize this the exact moment he does because their fingers jab together over Bucky’s button, and they both burst into laughter. It doesn’t slow them down, and a short thirty seconds later Bucky’s jeans and underwear join Steve’s sweats across the room.

With a warm lapful of Steve, Bucky slicks his fingers with the lube.  He grabs Steve’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart with one hand, stroking his dick with the other.

Steve sucks all the breath out of Bucky’s mouth when he sinks his index finger in to the knuckle, testing his preparedness.  Steve wasn’t lying. He really could just slip inside. Instead of doing that, Bucky gives him another two fingers.

“You’re such a tease,”  Steve gasps, his eyes closed, brows furrowed as he practically rides Bucky’s fingers.  They’re going to be sorer than hell tomorrow, but right now he couldn’t care less. Steve’s hands are in his hair, fisted right at the root.  Bucky wants him so much he could die.

He wraps his hand around both their dicks, groaning when Steve’s ass clenches around his fingers.  Scratch that, if he doesn’t get in there soon, he _will_ die.

“Screw me,”  Steve pleads, scratching his nails down Bucky’s scalp, all the way to his shoulders.  It's a line of pleasure that goes right to his groin.

“What happened to slow?”  Bucky chokes, letting go of all dicks involved so he can grab Steve by the other asscheek.

“Screw that,”  Steve sobs, rutting into him, precome smearing on Bucky’s stomach, so damn wet for him.  Bucky's so out of it with lust, he barely even notices Steve pushing him until he’s lying flat on his back.  Steve jerks him off, pouring more lube on him until he’s wetter than the goddamn Atlantic. He wraps one hand around the root of Bucky’s dick, the other he braces against his pec.  His palm is slippery with lube against his chest hair, but Bucky doesn’t care. Steve hovers over him, and Bucky stares up at him, heat in his eyes, worship in his lungs, love in his heart.

“Stevie,”  he whispers.

Steve’s hand is near painful tight around him, as he rubs the tip of Bucky’s dick under his balls.  He throws his head back, moaning as the head sinks in just a little, then further than three fingers could ever reach.

It’s all going beautifully, so of course Steve’s wet hand slips against his chest.  His arm goes out under him, and he nearly brains himself against the divan’s rest. He’s saved a trip to the emergency room when Bucky catches him by the shoulders, just in time.  Bucky can’t tell if the resulting blush is from embarrassment, or from the amazing sex. And he doesn’t really care. He’s gorgeous regardless.

“Are you—”  Bucky cuts himself off, moaning mortifyingly loud as Steve sinks right down on him, sitting on his dick, taking him to the root with no hesitation.  He’s a vice, tight, warm, and he rides Bucky like only a man with thighs of steel could. Bucky closes his eyes and desperately hangs on for dear life.  He almost forgot what Steve felt like. It’s been _so long_.  He doesn’t think he’s going to last.

“You can come whenever, I’ve got you, it’s okay,”  Steve soothes, folding their hands together as he rides him, slowing down, rolling his hips the way Bucky likes.  Which just won’t do at all. If there’s one thing Bucky can say about himself, it’s that he has a competitive streak a mile long.  Especially when it comes to Steve.

He grabs Steve by the hips, and thrusts up into him, hard enough to have his eyes rolling back in his skull.  His hands jerk, but he catches himself before he falls this time, thick arms on either side of Bucky’s head, lips close enough to kiss.  Bucky takes the opportunity to do just that.

“I’m a capable guy,”  Bucky says, after pulling back to look into Steve’s blown eyes.  “And I can fuck my man ‘til he comes.”

He grabs Steve’s ass with both hands, and maneuvers him where he wants, which just so happens to be with his sweaty chest pressed to Bucky’s face, nails digging into the divan’s rest.  Bucky bends his knees, and braces his feet. He pulls out nearly all the way, and slams back in, pushing a shuddering noise out of Steve.

Steve’s practically choking him with how tight he’s clinging, and Bucky relishes in it.  He bites at Steve’s nipples, sucking on them. He keeps fucking into Steve, fast and hard until he shrieks like a banshee, and wetness spills onto Bucky’s chest.  He clenches his teeth, and manages to pull out, just in time to come all over Steve’s ass and thighs.

Steve wavers and collapses bodily on top of him, right onto his come spattered chest.  Bucky lets out a little ‘oof,’ smiling when Steve hides his red face under his chin. Bucky can feel him grinning.  He rubs his hands down Steve’s back, laughing as he arches into it like a cat.

And of course that’s the moment Bucky’s stomach grumbles, loud enough to give a thunderstorm a run for its money.

***

“You promised to tell me about it,”  Steve says, tearing off a chunk of injera, using it to sop up a good portion Bucky’s favourite veggie wat.  He’s glad Steve likes it, he just wishes he’d leave some for him. Steve could put a vacuum to shame with the way he’s eating.

They’re sitting by the kitchen counter, side by side on barstools tall enough that their bare feet don’t touch the ground.  Cleanup had consisted of a damp washcloth, and Bucky bemoaning all the sweat and come that rubbed off on the divan’s upholstery.  Shuri had given him that thing as a housewarming present. He has no idea how to get come out of fabric short of tossing it in the washer.

“Tell you about what?”  Bucky plays dumb. After he eats, he’s planning on taking a long, warm shower, then falling right into bed with Steve.  He’s a simple man with simple needs.

Steve rolls his eyes, stealing a sip from Bucky’s cucumber lemonade, despite the fact that the pitcher is only a few inches away.  “The Golem.”

“That’s just the working title.”  Bucky grabs a green bean, chewing it slow.

“Since I’m dancing in it, I'll need to know what it’s about,”  Steve says, and Bucky promptly chokes on the bean in his mouth.

After Steve’s done whacking him on the back a few times to dislodge it, Bucky drops his hand on top of Steve’s.  “You mean that?”

“Like I said—”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Bucky blushes, ducking his head, chewing his lip.

“Golems, huh?”  Steve says, “That’s Jewish folklore, right?”

“Ashkenazi specifically.  Which in turn is rooted in mysticism,”  Bucky explains. He’s done a hell of a lot of research for this ballet.  “Golems even show up in the Talmud. It’s a really old concept.”

“What are they?”  Steve asks, tipping his head to the side, curious.

“In their most basic form, voiceless automatons formed out of clay in the shape of man, made to do their creator’s bidding.  In Ashkenazi folklore they’re usually created to protect a Jewish community from anti-Semitic violence.” Bucky rubs his thumb over Steve’s knuckles.  “A prominent rav, seeing the suffering around him, builds a man out of clay and writes upon a strip of parchment one of the many names of God. He placed this shem into their mouth, and the creature comes to life.  They are strong, capable, fierce, everything the rav hoped for.” Bucky gestures zipping his mouth closed. “But they cannot speak. And the shem must be removed once a week, for they cannot be allowed to come alive on Shabbos.”

“That sounds so sad,”  Steve says, frowning.

“It is sad, but it’s also joyus.  The golem saves them.” Bucky smiles.  “The golem protects them.”

Steve leans back on the barstool, pensive.  He turns Bucky’s hand over so they’re palm to palm.  “I want you to show it to me.”

***

“Are you scared?”  M’Baku asks, waiting at his side in the wings of the theatre.  The ferocious mask on his face hides his every emotion, but Bucky can tell that’s he’s smiling.  Okoye dances on stage, her ceremonial garb glinting under the vibrant lights. It’s obvious M’Baku can’t look away from her.

“Why would I be scared?  I’m not dancing tonight,”  Bucky says, nudging M’Baku.  “You’re the one who should be quaking in your boots.”

“I’m not wearing boots.”  M’Baku wiggles his bare toes in emphasis.  “Everyone you know is out there.” He points out.

“Not everyone I know,”  Bucky says. His parents couldn’t fly out to _Bashenga_ 's opening, but Becca is in the audience, filming it with the honest-to-god tape camcorder his ma used to memorialize his Bar Mitzvah.  Becca’s eighteen now, and taking a year off before university to pad her CV, if it wasn’t already padded enough. She could get accepted into an ivy league school in her sleep.

Bucky would never tell her, at the risk of inflating her already buoyant ego, but he’s so damn proud of everything she’s accomplished.

Natasha's sitting with Becca, looking like the goddess of war herself with her flaming red hair.  Bucky's missed her so much. They talk on Skype at least once a week, but it isn't the same as seeing each other in person.

“Most of the people you know,”  Shuri amends, sneaking up on them.

“Brat,”  M’Baku greets fondly, ruffling her hair.

She smoothes down her braids, then punches M’Baku on the shoulder hard enough to make him take a surprised step back.  “That’s Princess Brat to you.” Turning to Bucky, she says, “I met your _friend_ , the greasy one.  He gave me his card and said if ever considered deposing my brother I should contact him.”  She rolls her eyes. “His partner, or husband, or possibly alien parasite is also a big weirdo?  Wanted me to call him _The Grandmaster_?”

Bucky nods sagely.  “Stay away from Jeff, he gives everyone the heebie jeebies.”

A series of sharp beating drums announce the entrance of the Gorilla Tribe, and M’Baku audibly cracks his neck.  “That’s my cue.”

“Break a leg,”  Bucky says cheerfully.

“I’ll break your legs,”  M’Baku growls, really channeling his character as he marches onto the stage.

“By the way, how’s Steve liking the penthouse?”  Shuri asks excitedly, and boy was Bucky surprised to learn that Shuri and Steve get on like a house on fire.  Steve had contacted her about his intentions to move to Wakanda. She’s the one who arranged his visa, the moving company, everything he needed.  While Steve may be good at dancing, he’s really bad with authority figures telling him he can’t just up and fly to a foreign country on a long expired passport.

“Uh,”  Bucky says astutely.

“Does he like the smart home system I installed?”  She asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Um.”  He doesn’t know how to tell her that Steve hasn’t spent any time at all in his penthouse since he arrived.

It’s only been a few weeks, but Bucky already cleared out half his closet to make room for his clothes.  Hell, Steve even has his own side of the bed: the side closest to the wall because he doesn’t like drafts.  They never lived together in LA, but Wakanda is a new start for the both of them.

It's a bit of a learning curve, getting used to another person in his space all the time.  Steve tidies to the point of obsession, and when Bucky gets up in the middle of the night for a glass of water, Sarah Rogers’ freaky clown knick knacks never fail to give him heart palpitations.  Still, he wouldn’t change a thing. Okay, maybe he would choose to burn those figurines alive, but only because they are alive, and probably planning his demise.

“You’re going to have to ask him that,”  Bucky eventually says, hoping Steve forgives him for throwing him under the bus.

***

“That was beautiful, James.”  Natasha finds him after the performance.  She’s dressed in a slinky cocktail dress, a glass of bubbly champagne in hand.  Bucky pulls her into a hug, careful not to knock her glass out of her hand.

“I didn’t do much, it was all the queen.”  He laughs. “I just wrote down everything she told me.”

Natasha pinches his cheek.  “I saw a little bit of you in there, don’t try to deny it.”

Bucky blushes.  “Okay, maybe she went with a few of my suggestions.”

She smiles fondly, looking him up and down.  “How is Wakanda treating you?”

“Oh, you know,”  Bucky says, grinning when he spots Steve on the other side of the room.  A snowdrop is tucked into the lapel of his tux, and Bucky has no idea where he managed to find one.  In Africa, no less. He’s making a beeline straight for them, carrying a massive bouquet of roses with Bucky’s name on it.  “Never a dull moment.”

art by [lisamott9](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/)  | [link to art](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/post/182841824767/second-drawing-for-the-gorgeous-fic-diminuendo-by)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final thanks to artists, [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com), [ewlyn](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/), and [lisamott9](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/) who made so many beautiful, outstanding pieces it kind of hurts to look at them without ugly crying.
> 
> And a big, hearty thank you to the organizers of the Stucky AU Big Bang for being awesome, and for putting together this wonderful event! Thanks so much!!

**Author's Note:**

> I subsist on comments, and pretty much nothing else. If you enjoyed this work and the art, please leave one!
> 
> A comprehensive list of rebloggable tumblr links to art by chapter:
> 
> [bastgrr](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com): [six](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/182925693188/my-first-illustration-for-the-fic-diminuendo-by), [eight](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/182970214318/the-second-illustration-for-the-fic-diminuendo-by), [ten](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183012266313/the-third-illustration-for-diminuendo-by), [twelve](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183059627618/an-illustration-for-diminuendo-by-iamonlydancing), [fifteen](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183128549253/an-illustration-for-diminuendo-by-iamonlydancing), [sixteen](https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/183151897348/the-last-one-loki-this-time-you-guys-have-no)  
> [ewlyn](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/): [header](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/182824380693/diminuendo-by-iamonlydancing-has-started), [thirteen](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183102039968/here-is-my-second-piece-of-artwork-for-diminuendo), [fourteen](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183108189993/the-third-and-fourth-artwork-for-diminuendo-by), [seventeen](http://ewlyn.tumblr.com/post/183178192378/the-fifth-and-final-piece-of-artwork-i-have-done)  
> [lisamott9](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/): [nine](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/post/182822394807/first-one-of-my-sketches-for-the-stucky-au-bang), [eighteen](https://lisamott9.tumblr.com/post/182841824767/second-drawing-for-the-gorgeous-fic-diminuendo-by)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [diminuendo Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774825) by [ewlyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewlyn/pseuds/ewlyn)




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